


Use Your Words

by BenLMoore, Tanyk (BenLMoore)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bullying, Dean is not a nice guy, First Kiss, First Time, Homophobic Language, Incest, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Pre-Stanford, Sexuality Crisis, Sibling Rivalry, Sibling attraction, Slurs, attempted anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-10-11 04:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 25
Words: 56,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20540198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/Tanyk
Summary: Sam's big brother gets off on tormenting him. His classmates aren't much better. There should be peace at home and solace at school, but he finds monsters everywhere. When Sam stands up for himself, everything comes to a head.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- initially. inspired by a chapter from Tara Westover's memoir, Educated.  
Also, if you've read something very similar, it might have been the previous version of this fic. Currently improving and expanding. Thanks for checking it out.

[ ](https://imgur.com/TKaUZFF)

“Shit.”

Sam jolts awake with his ass sinking into the cratered center of a squeaky motel mattress. Late again, like every morning he relies on Dean for a ride. Big brother doesn’t give a fart about school.

Sam dreamed he was under attack by a growling werewolf. Actually, Dean is snoring in the adjacent bed. The aches and bruises pierce both realities.

Hunting sucks.

The deal was Sam participates, Dean gets him back in time. It’s 6:33 AM and they’re two hours from Roanoke, even with his brother’s hellbat driving. He only agreed so Dean wouldn’t get himself dead. Maybe that was a mistake.

Last night, after vanquishing the Big Bad du jour, both boys skipped showers and crashed, face-down, in their filthy hunting gear. Boots on. The way Sam’s skull is screaming now, a 48-hour nap would be justified, but there’s a second-period chem exam and no time to wait.

“We got to go. Get up!” Sam vaults to the floor and kicks his brother’s foot. “Dean! You promised. Let’s go.”

Dean never cared about school. That’s why he didn’t finish.

To Sam, it’s the one place where there are no monsters. No one even mentions monsters, except for Halloween and Frankenstein, which his AP English Lit class is studying now. As much as Winchesters move around and as weird as his family is, Sam doesn’t bother trying to make friends. People don’t like him anyway. School is not fun. It’s not social hour. It’s just better than home.

Dean props on one arm, then the other, eyes still shut. He groans, rolls off the bed and shuffles like a blind zombie: one hand raised and groping for the bathroom while his left hand snakes down his jeans. Sam cringes and diverts his eyes. He doesn’t need to watch his brother tug his junk.

“Would you, please, hurry up?”

Two minutes later, Sam’s bladder kicks in. He knocks twenty times, but it’s another three minutes before Dean appears wearing a relaxed grin.

“Crap and tap, little brother.”

Sam would have heard the sink. He flinches from the unwashed hand Dean tries to place on his shoulder.

Leaving the room, Sam casts a final glance at the mud and blood-caked sheets. He smoothes the three crumpled dollars in his pockets and leaves them on his pillow for the poor maid.

In the parking lot, the rusty doors screech open and Dean’s lump of shit pickup reluctantly coughs to life. An unseasonably warm October wind whistles through the cracked window, ruffling Sam’s hair and fluttering his pages as the sky brightens to a pale promise of another crisp day. The foliage frames the road in gold. The Shenandoah mountains observe Dean's speeding with majestic indifference. Why not stay in Virginia? Because Winchesters never stay anywhere.

Dean drives thru for McMuffins and hashbrowns. Three each, with OJ from too much concentrate. Sam’s fresh-squeezed tastes notwithstanding, he digs in before Dean collects his change. When he’s done eating, Sam crunches his wrappers into the bag, cringing as his brother lets another sandwich paper flap away through the cabin window.

“You know that’s illegal.”

Dean grins and clicks on the radio. It’s static and noise until he finds something to howl along to: Kansas, Cheyenne Anthem.

The only reasonable course of action is to ignore. What's the worst that can happen? He's already late. Thankfully, Sam possessed the forethought to bring his backpack. His low-grade headache is no doubt a product of being repeatedly slammed against a brick wall. He winces and shakes it off, chewing a pencil eraser as he reads.

Every now and again, he underlines a passage, pretending not to notice Dean’s occasional glances. His brother's sweaty palm closes around Sam’s nape like it’s marking property. Dean does it to pester him. Why else?

Rough, calloused fingertips knead Sam’s neck and tug on his right earlobe. He leans into it until a strange heat kicks up behind his sternum like a furnace humming awake.  
It is not cool beans when your brother turns you on. Sam shrugs away.

If Dean had any idea how his annoying little touches light up Sam’s body, he’d never quit ribbing him about it. He’d laugh himself silly, or he’d think Sam was a sicko, which isn’t far from true.

Dean squeezes and peeks over with an odd grin.

“Get off,” Sam shrieks. “I’m not your cat.”

Dean withdraws his hand and looks out of his window for a moment. Then, he knocks the book from Sam’s hands.  
So it begins. These days, Dean’s default setting is Annoy Sam. Usually, it’s sheer inanity: refusing to flush the toilet, putting Preparation H where the toothpaste should be, Dean’s dirty briefs under Sam’s pillow.

“Idiot.”

Sam retrieves his book and locates his page.

Dean alternates between watching the road and his little brother. Sam grits his teeth and braces for mischief.

“How can you even read in the car?” Dean asks. “Isn’t that supposed to give you a stroke or something?”

“I just can.”

“Nerd.”

“And?”

They drive another mile before Dean knocks down the book again. Sam steadies his breath before he picks it off the floor. As he flips around for his lost page again, Dean plucks away the book and flings it from the driver’s window.

“Dude.”

Sam spins in time to watch it disappear beneath a minivan with Florida plates. Scotch tape exists for moments like this.

“Dean, stop the car.”

Dean steps on the gas and starts singing again.

Sam could lose his shit. He’d be within his right. But what good would it do to shout or grab the steering wheel and start a fight in the car like Dean would do if that was one of his precious cassettes vanishing behind them? If Sam lets on how upset he is, Dean wins.

He takes a deep breath. “Listen, I have to write a paper on that book.”

Dean grins and mock punches his chin. How can Sam explain the importance of grades to someone who wouldn’t have gotten his GED if their Dad hadn’t insisted? A torrent of unkind and accurate adjectives bombards Sam’s tongue. Moron. Imbecile. Blockhead. Philistine. He covers his mouth to hold them in. A final look in the side mirror.  
Gone.

The worst part of the abuse is that Dean used to be so awesome. Samdefender, Bullybeater, LateNightCuddler. Now, he’s barely bearable.

“Also for you.” Dean tilts to the left and the truck slowly fills with a sickening odor, worse than sulfur.

Smiling, he fans the bad air to the passenger side. Sam groans and rolls down his window, hanging out his head. Now, come the punches. He swats the fist pummeling the back of his thigh and cries out, “What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you act like a twelve-year-old?”

“Why do you act like a bitch?”

Further argument is wasted breath. Sam would rather fight monsters than deal with his brother when he gets like this. He folds his arms and lets the wind strike his face.

He arrives at North Cross forty-three minutes tardy, without his book, but with a searing headache, smelling and dressed like a lumberjack/serial killer.  
It’s no surprise he can’t make friends.

“Have a good day, Jackass,” Dean calls through the window.

Sam doesn't waste the energy to flip him off. If anyone asks, he’ll call the bloodstains mud.

***

No one asks. A few teachers raise their brows, but Sam’s peers never notice him. Why should they care if his clothes are dirty?

Also, there are no copies of Frankenstein left in the school library. The entire tenth-grade class is reading it. Sam thanks the librarian (for nothing) and sighing as he mopes away.

As he’s skulking down the hall, Sally Bishop shines like a lighthouse. Beautiful. Brilliant. Smells like strawberries. In English Lit, while Sam was tempted to hide under his desk, she’d raised her hand at every question.

Bonus: this is an excuse to talk to her outside of class, which Sam would usually never do. Desperation makes him wave. Regret tempts him to flee.  
Sally checks the hall. Since they’re the only people, she accepts being the target of his goofy greeting. She doesn’t wave back, nor does she run when he approaches. All Sam has to do is be calm. Start a conversation.

They have the Chem exam in common. Sally aced it.

“Me, as well,” Sam says, like an alien. “I mean, I did, also. Got an A.”

Every time he talks to a girl, syntax fails. But like a faithful puppy, Sam flaps his second-hand, size-eleven boots beside her all the way to the front steps. There, he drops the big question, or rather fumbles in his attempts to pass it. 

“By any chance, are you… Did you… Have you finished reading Frankenstein?”

“Like, a week ago,” Sally rolls her eyes. “Plus, I’d already read it so...”

She swings her auburn curls over her shoulder and consults her Swatch indicating the end of Sam’s audience. Her lips are glossed Bubble Yum pink. Her eyes are exactly the same color as her hair, gazing past Sam at the guys running around the field.

Of course.

“You think I could borrow it?” he blurts. “Just for a couple of days. I’m nearly finished.”

The worst she can say is no. Sally sucks her teeth and asks, “What happened to your copy?”

Sam takes a deep breath and opts against the truth that an asshole primate threw it out of a car window in North Carolina.

He has nothing to offer. Sally doesn’t need homework help. If he even mentions it, she’ll correctly assume his ulterior motives. He’d do anything to spend more time with her. Just time. Nothing weird.

“You know,” Sally says. “Those books are school —”

Her face freezes, honey-brown eyes wide as a vamp venom paralysis victim. Sam could have guessed without turning around.

Dean probably hasn’t combed or washed his hair in three days. He’s got a toothpick hanging from his smirk, their dad’s leather jacket, and worn-out jeans on his warped legs. Sally studies him from greasy crown to dirt-caked boots. All Sam can do is sigh.

Until now, he’s always met his brother at the truck. He was apparently taking too long.

“You know what, never mind.”

“Do you know that guy?”

“No.”

Except Dean is looking right at him, sauntering like he’s in slow motion. He floats past the buses and bicycles, glides by craning girls and bewildered boys ignorant of their drool.

Sally slides her curls behind her ear, preening for the alpha male. Sam doesn’t blame her. Dean is hot. If Sam was a girl, and Dean wasn’t his brother, he’d be pulling on his hair, too.

That’s another great detail about Sally: Sam is allowed to want her. She’s only off-limits because she says rich and beautiful and popular and completely uninterested. The rest of the world wouldn't call him a freak for wanting her. He’d be crazy if he didn’t.

Dean reaches them before Sam can reasonably escape. The space between his unattainable crushes sucks Sam into a vortex of awkward. Both close enough to touch. He never would, but the thought gives him vicious chills. If Dean is the sun, Sally’s a planet. Neither is going in Sam’s pocket.

Dean bumps his shoulder, throwing Sam off balance long enough to rekindle brotherly hate. Sally’s only checking Dean out because he’s sexy as all sin. She has no idea what a shit he is.

“Come on, boywonder. Let’s move.”

If they hover too long, Dean will start making egghead jokes.

Sally looks between them, probably wondering how Sam knows Gorgeous. He and Dean don’t look, talk, stand, or think alike. Dean is their dad in duplicate. Maybe Sam resembles their mother, but how would he know?

Sally clears her throat.

Manners be damned. The last thing Sam wants to do is introduce them.

He’s not fooling himself. He doesn’t have a chance with Sally, and neither does Dean. Her boyfriend is a senior lacrosse star whose father (like Sally’s) is in state politics. There’s a big plaque on the awards display: In gratitude to the Bishop Family Trust. This girl is out of reach for either Winchester.

The thing is, Dean looks good, but he’s embarrassing. The moment he opens his mouth, she’ll see how uneducated, uncouth —

“Hi. I’m Sally.”

Dean stares at the bright yellow polish on her outstretched hand. She apparently overlooks the black grease under his nails. Sam nudges his brother and Dean shakes like a good monkey.

“Pleasure.”

Sally’s cheeks flush, and she swings her backpack onto her chest.

“I’ll need it back on Friday,” she says, presenting Sam with a pristine hard copy of Mary Shelley’s classic.

***

“You like that girl, don’t you?”

Talking to Dean about girls is like playing catch with a live grenade: a great game until it’s not anymore.

Sam’s brother is a chauvinistic, womanizing prick who doesn’t ‘do’ girlfriends. He hooks up with any female obtuse enough to be lured into his pickup truck by lame lines and a crooked smile.

In other words, Sam should know better than to ask, “She’s pretty hot, right?”

How badly can it go? Maybe he and Dean will agree on something. That hasn’t happened in a long time.

Dean drives with his right hand. Left arm dangling from the open window tapping the truck’s rusty frame. He’s still gnawing the mint out of his toothpick. Soap, sweat and gun oil oozing from his pores.

He eyes Sally’s book and Sam tucks it in his backpack for safety.

“She’s all right,” Dean finally admits.

Sally Bishop is the Platonic ideal of feminine perfection. If Dean doesn’t see that, it’s because he prefers inbred bimbos.

“I was thinking,” Dean mumbles. “I mean, I’ve been thinking it for a while...”

That’s unlikely, because Dean Winchester doesn’t think. Scratching his hair like he has a flea problem doesn’t make him look any brighter.

“We could…we should, you know…”

How would anyone know what Dean is blathering about? His skull is a Fabergé egg: dazzling and hollow.

All Dean’s thinking costs so much effort that Sam points out their truck veering across the solid yellow line. Dean rights the wheel as the oncoming driver lays on the horn. He chuckles through the crosswind while Sam squeezes his door handle.

“Geez.”

When Dean tries to touch his neck, Sam’s swerves away. His brother replies by shoving cranium against the passenger window with a loud thump.  
Sam clutches his head, wincing and biting back profanity.

“That girl’s not my type,” Dean says. “She’s got goat eyes.”

Dean’s crossed eyes might be funny if he wasn’t such a dick.

“She looks stupid,” he says and squeezes Sam’s thigh with a pressure that kind of tickles, kind of hurts.

Sam bats away the hand. “What are you doing? Quit.”

It’s never-ending torment. Sam should have known it was wasted breath. He hasn’t had a decent conversation with his brother since the great 1990 debate over whether Shaggy or Scooby was better.

It’s fine. Being brothers doesn’t make them friends. It doesn’t even put them in the same universe. Luckily, Sam enjoys solitude, because he’s definitely alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean is a variety of unsavory things, but he isn’t often late picking Sam up after school. It’s the day after the hunt and this is probably more torture. Unless Dean just forgot that Sam exists.

Within an hour, the parking lot is clear, and annoyance has become concern.

Did a hunt come up? Would he go alone? Or is it some other emergency? Sometimes creatures will preemptively attack hunters, or retaliate. Sam paces the sidewalk reminding himself that panic is useless.

If Sam takes the county bus and Dean shows up, he’ll be pissed. It might end all future rides. On the other hand, if something is going down at their place, he needs to be there to help.

A handful of adults leave the building averting their eyes. Ms Jeffries, the drama teacher is the first one who approaches with her customary exhausted smile.

"Do you need a ride..."

She's waiting for his name, so he gives it to her along with an explanation.

"I forgot, I'm supposed to be riding the bus."

Across the aisle, a young mom stares out of the window while her toddler makes an Olympic sport of licking the snot from its left nostril. At a downtown stop, an old man climbs up the stairs bent in half like he's searching for fallen quarters.

The bell rings whenever someone requests a stop, but all in all, the Calley Metro bus offers a more peaceful atmosphere than the clamorous symphony that bleeds through the apartment walls: yelling mothers, screaming children, barking dogs, and a never-ending battle of rock and rap music.

Sam takes three buses and still has to walk a mile from the nearest stop. The closer he comes to their apartment, the tighter his guts coil in apprehension. Dean can be a jerk, but he's never left Sam waiting. What if he’s hurt? Or worse?

Slate-grey clouds roll together stirring the sunset into a murky soup.

Sam takes the steps two at a time. The moment he opens the door, his belly releases its knots, rumbling like thunder to the peculiar swirl of strawberries and meat sauce.

Well, Dean is fine.

His wings are spread across the back of the second-hand sofa. Onscreen, violins shriek as a blonde flees in stilettos. Cinematic preferences are one more thing they don't share.

Sam will gladly take his studying into their bedroom and enjoy the luxurious 12’x12’ space to himself. As long as Dean's in here doesn’t crank his music up to 11, Sam can spread his materials on the other bed and focus.

His brother flicks a hand and grunts like a gorilla greeting in the wild.

Sam sighs and shuts the door. No point asking why Dean left him hanging.

Sally sits up and knocks Sam’s brain into neutral by wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

“Go get me some water,” Dean says.

For a split second, Sam thinks the order is for him.

Sally nods, apparently eager for another assignment. As she scurries to the kitchen, Dean stacks his ankles on the coffee table, knocking free a clump of dirt.

This is Sam’s cue to flee the apartment, run to his room, do anything other than stand behind his brother with his insides seething.

Sally returns with a glass of water.

Dean asks, “Where’s the ice?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She shuffles back to the kitchen and returns with the ice clinking in the glass.

“You know what, bring me a beer instead?”

Sally brings him a beer instead.

“What is this shit?”

“It’s what you had.”

“This stuff is crap,” Dean says. “I want a fucking Guinness.”

“I don’t think you have...” Sally bites her lip. “Do you want me to run to the store and get you a Guinness?”

“What do you think?”

She nods and snatches up the keys to the silver BMW she drives to school leaving a trace of berry-scented air as she scampers out of the door without acknowledging Sam’s presence.

Dean raises the remote and flicks to another channel. “You just going to stand back there all night?”

Sam sulks past his spinespearing brother, brain so addled all he can think to say is, “You suck.”

***

In retrospect, it was a weakly ironic insult. Sam could have fired better if all his cylinders were firing. Even now, he’s standing in the middle of his floor, sweaty and shaking.

Not his type, huh?

Apparently, Sally has the right type of mouth for that fucking, evil bastard.

Sam glares at Dean’s bed, fists curled, fighting tears.

Dean’s a whore. He has for years. Sam may or may not have snuck around to witness that first hand. Years ago, when he was little. And he’d deny it under oath.

This is different. This is Dean rubbing Sally in his face when she barely looks at Sam in the hall.

_Sammy, you like this girl, right? Watch her suck me off._

Actually, that’s kind of hot. But it’s also awful. If he tried to watch, he’d wind up choking one or both. What kind of brother does that? Why is Dean only happy when Sam is suffering?

If that’s how it is, Sam’s better off without him. From now on, he’s an only child, and Dean is a vapor. If he comes near, Sam will look through him like scummy glass.

That vow calms Sam enough to sit down to his Trig.

It’s raining now, but Sam will not fucking cry. Sally Bishop is not the love of his life. She’s just an attractive girl. What those two do is not his business.

Trigonometry requires undivided attention. Dean and Sally can do whatever. Sam wipes moisture from his cheek and steels his jaw for focus.

Study isn't just about excellence. It's an escape. To Dean, it would sound extremely lame, but drinking and driving too fast are a child’s rebellion. Sam has always had access to alcohol, and adrenaline is the Winchester way of life. Good grades are his insurgency. He behaves and excels as a form of protest.

So, let Dean be an ape. He probably can't even help himself with his double-digit IQ. (That’s conjecture on Sam's part, but would explain the way Dean acts)

Calling dibs on a girl is caveman thinking. Sally is her own person. She is (Sam thought) an intelligent, young woman capable of making her own choices. She selected Dean.

Another deep breath and back to this tangent.

Sam's is hunched over his work when a rhythmic tapping begins. He looks up and identifies its source as the other side of the wall. An obnoxious, persistent thump coming from his father’s room.

He hasn't seen his dad in four days, which means...

“No way.”

Sam sits on the edge of his bed blinking at the wall. The tempo increases until it sounds like Dean is practicing on a punching bag.

Is he insane? Having sex with a girl in their father's bed? It’s slightly more considerate than bringing Sally into their room with Sam there, but not by much.

Sam crawls over Dean's bed and knocks on the wall. When there's no change, he pounds with the palm of his hand three times.

Dean pounds back, three times.

“Asshole!”

Dean's laugh is plain but whatever he says is unintelligible through the drywall. The slow rhythm starts again and Sam can almost see them. Sally’s legs wide. Dean mounted to her. They’re like a butterfly. She clutches his back as he pumps in and out of her.

Sam palms his hardening crotch, panting at the wall.

Sally lets out a long, high-pitched wail. It's probably her first time, and Dean is pounding away. No way he cares. Sam ought to go over there.

And what? Pull his brother off the girl of his dreams and pretends it’s heroism? What would they do if he came over there?

And what?

Stood in the corner and jerked off a pyscho.

Another scream. Dean is hurting her. Or is that…

Oh.

Sam squeezes himself. Then he shakes his head and lets go. He’s not going to act like some horny, curious preteen.

He opens the window and sticks out his head, letting the downpour batter his head. But it’s not loud enough to drown them out. Whoever thought Dean’s boombox would be a lifesaver? Sam turns on AC/DC, too loud. He flicks off the light and retreats beneath a pillow.

He’s drowned out the sound, but in the dark, the image amplifies. Dean’s hips on overdrive. Sally’s hands gripping his tight ass as he drives into her.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut. Clutches his pants leg.

It’s no wonder Sally wants Dean. Any girl would. He’s all instincts and brute force. A real man. Sam never even kissed anybody.

Doesn’t want to touch himself.

Not to this.

“Fuck.”

Just a little. Over his pants. Enough pressure to keep from dying.

***

Side A of Highway to Hell ends and it’s all quiet.

What are they doing now? Is Dean holding Sally? Kissing her?

Sam wallows in swamp green emotions he wouldn’t name if he could.

The next time Sally screams, his blood runs cold rather than hot. There’s nothing sexual about it.

Sam sits up, listening: a quick yelp, silence, followed by another shriek. The low rumble of Dean’s voice punctuates. Sam squints but can’t make out words.

Other than the lack of sleep, it isn’t his business. Sally wanted dangerous, she got it.

Dean’s a moron, but he has a cowboy’s simple charm when he wants. He can be courteous and almost romantic with girls: opening doors, flicking vapid compliments like clinking currency. Apparently, Sally was looking for someone to talk down to her. Dean can play that role, too, in ways Sam would never try.

Who knows what Dean wants? To get laid. Probably simple as that.

Not Sam’s business.

Then Sally lets out a spine-curling scream and whimpers, “Please.”

The word penetrates the drywall. Maybe she’s asking for more of something, but it doesn’t sound that way. Sam’s training forces him to check.

He leads with a soft knock. Then, he turns the knob.

“Fuck off, Sam.”

Sally’s beside the bed, cradling her wrist. She lifts a sheet from the floor to cover herself and scrubs away tears.

“What do you want?” Dean asks, trudging to the bedside table for a long slog of his Guinness.

Sam scans the scene once more and looks away. Doesn’t want to see either of them like this.

“You guys are loud,” he mumbles.

Dean chuckles. “What are you being so loud for?”

“I’m sorry.”

Sally’s apology is for Dean.

“Yeah, well. Go home,” he says with his back turned.

Sam forbids himself to do more than glance at Sally’s smeared makeup, and tangled hair.

“Go.”

She clutches the sheet at her chest, stoops around the room collecting her clothes. She breezes past Sam, smelling more like filth than fresh fruit.

Dean sits on their father’s bed, still drinking.

There’s nothing else to say. This is the part when Sam goes back to his room and makes believe none of this ever happened. He won’t mention it to Sally tomorrow. He’ll put her book on her desk and avoid eye-contact for the rest of the school year - or however long they stay in town.

His legs should be carrying him back to the land of his own business. Instead, his mouth opens: “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Why would you want that piece of trash?”

“So, she’s good enough for you, but not me?”

“Just go the fuck to sleep, Sam.”

Dean’s glare that might intimidate if Sam didn’t battle the same monsters as his brother. The apartment door clicks behind Sally as she makes her escape.

“Aren’t you going to walk her to —”

Dean flings the half-empty bottle. Sam ducks and narrowly avoids being struck. His mouth falls open as he huffs at the shattered glass and puddle around his bare feet.

“The hell…”

Dean launches himself from the bed and knocks Sam back against the wall. His shoulders rise and fall, breath loud and ragged as his wrist crushes Sam’s larynx.

Physically, Sam knows how to break this hold. Mentally, he’s helpless.

Dean mashes their mouths together. Teeth clashing. Beer and Winchester blood mingling between their lips, spiking Sam’s system.

He shoves his brother and wipes his mouth. When he flees, Dean doesn’t follow.

Staring through the dark, chest heaving. Should have probably locked the door. His lower lip is lacerated. Sam troubles the wound with his tongue. His brain scrambles for an explanation.

Boxing?

Fighters do that sometimes. To piss off their opponents. To confuse or harass them. Or make themselves look crazy.

Dean is definitely crazy. No question about it.

Sam touches his lips. Rubs his knuckles back and forth trying to recreate the sensation of Dean’s mouth. Heat flares in his chest and spreads. He’s never beat off to his brother before. Always stopped himself and changed the subject, before now. Tonight, the memory of Dean’s blood and spit is hot on Sam’s tongue when his hand slides down his briefs.

He shouldn’t do this. Doesn’t want to. And couldn’t stop for anything.


	3. Chapter 3

The alarm crows at 5:30. Too early for buses, but if Sam starts walking in 20 minutes, he should arrive before the 7:15 bell.

He just needs to get out of this apartment, and to the school where everything is normal and predictable.  
Dean is morning averse and, no doubt, still asleep in their father’s bed.

Sam rolls onto his back, ready to complete his exodus until he discovers Dean in the pre-dawn dim, perched on the other bed with a mug between his hands. He looks haggard, like he got even less sleep than Sam’s two or three fitful hours.

He’s hardly blinking. Just sitting on the side of his bed, staring. Being weird.

What now? Did he hear from their dad?

Sam rubs his eyes and drags himself to the edge of his bed. His knees are Dean’s knuckles around his cup. Sam studies his brother’s hands rather than meet his eyes. Dean takes a breath like he’s going to speak. But he remains silent and stands.

He’s not going say anything and Sam should let it pass. Keep his mouth shut. Act like Sally, and everything, never happened. To speak up now is begging for trouble.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Dean freezes. He turns and glares, an unreadable expression and not just because it’s dark in the room.

“Take a shower,” Dean mumbles. “You smell like a wet fart.”

Sam showers, dresses, packs his bag. PopTarts are neither tasty nor satisfying, but they're a better breakfast than a belly full of tap water. This, he knows from experience.

Dean’s being strange this morning. Not his usual boisterous irritating self. A quiet menacing. Standing by the sink, silently watching Sam chew. Who knows what he’s thinking when he broods like this? Probably that Sam is an ass for busting into the room last night. Or for that kissing question. Or that if their mother never had a second child she might still be alive.  
At least Dean doesn’t know Sam fell asleep with his hands down his pants thinking about his brother’s mouth.

For whatever reason, he’s still low-grade pissed. Taking the bus might be conveyed as a hostile act. To preserve the tenuous peace, Sam relents to ride with Dean.  
They leave the apartment early enough to be on time. It’s brisk at this hour, even with the denim jacket. A few other cars are on the street, but driving in a reverent hush. Dean’s left hand grips the wheel, the right fingers twiddling on his thigh. Sam folds his hands in his lap.

The silence between them is so deafening, Sam would almost prefer the teasing. Almost.

Dean stops for gas. No big deal. There’s still plenty of time for Dean to slow-stroll across the parking lot, into the shop. He slips the cashier the money. Sam ought to look away when he comes back outside. He shouldn’t watch Dean’s legs when he walks, or turn to stare while he’s pumping the gas.

He has the sense to straighten up when his brother climbs back into the cabin. At the next stoplight, Dean reaches over and squeezes his thigh. Kind of hurts, kind of tickles.  
Usually, Sam would swat it away. This time, he holds his breath.

The hand slides up and down his leg. Sam’s body responds instantly. Blood racing cold and hot at once. It’s awful and awesome. Sam nudges the hand away, but without much conviction.

The hand returns, now kneading Sam’s thigh. There’s nothing accidental about it his pinky prodding Sam’s balls.

Dean knows.

Sam clears his throat and knocks the hand aside again. He pulls his backpack into his lap, hugging it and gazing out of the window. His pulse misdirects its efforts, swelling his crotch despite Sam’s desperate attempts to squeeze his knees together and make it stop.

He waits until Dean is making a left turn to raise his hips and adjust his pants. It’s too late. He’s going to arrive at school with a big, gnarly boner. It’s not like he can wait it out, or beat it down with Dean right here. His first order of business at school will be to hop out with the bag in front of him and speedwalk to the first boy’s room in the school. A Hall. Three doors from the nurse’s office.

Sam drops his forehead into his hand.

Dean's palm slithers beneath the backpack and squeezes.

Sam whimpers, "Quit."

Dean knows. That’s what this is. The touches. Sally. The kiss. Everything. Dean knows that Sam wants him.  
Sam doesn’t want to want him, but now Dean knows.

At least he seems more amused than disgusted. He hasn’t cursed Sam out or threatened to tell their dad, whenever he gets home. It must be pretty hilarious, knowing your little brother is just another horny loser who fantasize about you. Now, Dean is going to tease him forever until Sam snaps and winds up killing his brother out of frustration.

Sam shuts his eyes. He’d rather die than cry. He only opens them when Dean pulls over and parks the truck. The engine is still running, heat blowing on their feet.

“What’s going on?”

The abandoned playground blanketed in mist. It’s still dark enough to kill someone and dump the body. Dean knocks Sam’s backpack onto the floor.

“Look, Dean. I don’t want to be late.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, tugging roughly on Sam’s belt.

Is this a test? Is Sam supposed to make him stop? Is he supposed to fight?

He sucks in his gut, taps his fingers on the door handle and searches the park for witnesses he won’t find.

“Dean?”

"Up."

Sam lifts off the seat, lets Dean struggle to bring his pants down around his thighs. For a brief moment, his stiff cock is exposed and pointing to the roof. Without another word, Dean leans over and takes it in his mouth.

Sam hisses, hips rising into the wet warmth. His toes curl in his shoes, fingers ball into fists at his sides. The cabin fills with Sam's gasps and obscene slurps as Dean bobs up and down, spreading saliva and precum down the shaft with his right hand, fondling his balls with the other. Sam’s leg shakes like a sick dog. He doesn’t last two minutes before his body coils tight.

“Dean, I’m gonna…”

“Mmhm.”

What does that mean? This is uncharted waters. What is he supposed to do?

“Dean?”

Sam’s body makes the decision. His hips levitate. He shouts as he releases in his brother’s mouth.

“Oh my God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… fuck.”

He shuts his eyes, panting, leaning back on the headrest while light thrills through his entire body.

That doesn’t last either.

Reality slaps back hard and fast. That was Sam's first blowjob. Courtesy of his brother.  
He puts himself away, fixes his clothes and stares ahead at the playground. He clears his throat. Dean starts the car and drops him off late, like any other morning.


	4. Chapter 4

Man, the look on Sam’s face. The kid was fucking stunned.   
Dean chuckles. Adjusts the rearview mirror to admire the smirking badass motherfucker behind the wheel of his truck. 

Finally. After two years of ogling Sam, imaging all kinds of fucked up shit. It’s been longer if Dean is honest with himself. But he’s not. It’s been way longer than that, but some thoughts belong under wraps. 

It’s a jungle in his head.

He almost can't even believe he just did that. After all this time, why now? Maybe it’s. like a combination lock. Their dad’s been gone a week. Sam liking that useless slut. An unpredictable flare in the old itch. Click click click. Who knows?

Dean sticks out his tongue. No cum stuck to that dangly thing in the back of his throat. Now, he can tick one item off the list. Knows how baby brother tastes. And all about the choked little groans when he’s winding up. And how Sam’s thighs twitch and he holds his breath, and then kind of whisper-shouts while he’s shooting his load. Hot as fuck, just like Dean knew it would be. 

Sam’s always so tidy and slippery. Only jerks off in the shower or when Dean’s not in the room.   
Gotcha.

Dean checks his shirt, the upholstery. No evidence anywhere except in his head. Sammy’s an uptight bitch, but he’s no rat. He’s not going to tell anyone unless he wants to be gutted.

“Bullshit.”

Dean puts the truck in gear.

He’s not going to hurt Sam. Mess with the egghead? Pluck at his nerves, sure. That’s his right and responsibility as an older brother. But never hurt him. Not in any way.

Dean glances back at the school. Sam has already disappeared through the double doors. Into his other world where he goes to hide from Dean. And from monsters. 

Can’t even blame him. Dean would hide, too, if he could. 

Sam likes to bitch about being late to school. He’s lucky Dean takes him at all. Hates to let the kid out of his sight. Monsters can be anywhere. Can look like anything. In fact, even Dean could be one.

He’s in no rush now. Cruises past the park where he swallowed Sammy’s cum. Past a lady with a stroller, Past an old guy jogging with a tired-looking dog. Through town. Past the dark storefronts, some of them boarded. By a dive bar with a rainbow flag in the window. 

Queers. 

Dean might get down with a guy from time to time, but he doesn't broadcast that shit. He's no fucking gay, and he’d shank anybody who suggests otherwise. The thing with Sam is primal instinct. Animal shit. Asserting his dominance. That’s all. 

For the record, no one ever said not to touch his brother that way. But Dean’s not stupid. At least, he knows wrong from right. You don’t fucking blow the baby.

He smacks his head a few times. Probably doesn’t help much.

Why the hell did he do that? Why did he fucking… 

Rests his elbow on the window frame. Covers his mouth. Pinches his filthy lips. 

What kind of fucking psycho does something like that?  
Where the hell is their fucking dad?

If his mom was still around, none of this would be happening. Dean has that thought at least a dozen times a day. It’s a bit of useless truth.

For once in his life, Dean Winchester should have kept it in his pants.

In fact, he did. His dick is still there, bent, damp and uncomfortable in his jeans. All it takes is an accidental trip back down memory lane to get him hard again. 

The way Sam’s voice cracked. “Dean, I’m gonna.”  
His load gushing into Dean’s mouth, sliding down his throat, all warm and gooey.  
Sammy’s load.   
Holy fuck. 

Dean can still taste it. Still smell his brother in the car.   
He parks in front of their apartment building, pops his fly, spits on his dick and beats off quick and rough. Blows in his hand, breathing his brother’s name. 

No afterglow. Rather than relieved, his lax muscles are exhausted. Barely has the energy to drag his ass up the stairs. Didn’t sleep last night. Sat there, staring at Sam.  
Why is he fucking like this?

Shouldn’t have done that.   
Dean sighs down at the mess, sticky and cooling between his fingers.  
He cleans up with a baby wipe and tosses it out the window.

It only happened because he let that shit fester too long. Wanting that nerdy, wiry little fucker. The older he gets, the more Sam treats him like a leper. Dean wanted Sam’s attention. He got it. That’s it. Out of his system. One and done.

And Dean takes care of his brother. Does fucking everything for him. Is he not entitled to some compensation? Besides, it’s not like Sam was crying. Not with the quality of service big brother provides. Dean flashes himself another practiced smirk in the mirror. This one is a bit less dazzling. 

“It’s fine.”

He busies himself with flipping through tabloids, local newspapers. He eats Crunch Berries while watching cable access. A few altercations in town, but nothing that looks like their kind of thing. 

With the TV off, it’s too quiet. Three hours to kill before Samtime. Around noon, Dean calls Bobby. No word from their dad. Also, no new leads anywhere. At least that’s what Bobby always says. That old coot is probably lying because he doesn’t want Dean hunting alone. He’d rather Dean rot in this apartment. 

He’s about to sign off when Bobby asks, “How’s your brother?”

“Fine. Why?” Dean answers too fast, too suspicious sounding even to his own ears. 

“How’s he doing at that school?”

“Nerding it up, same as he does at every school?”

“Yeah, but this ain’t no normal school.”

Dean knows the deal. Bobby knew somebody. Pulled some kind of fancy strings to get Sam a scholarship to this college prep place. For what? Winchesters ain’t got no college money. Sam’s going to graduate suma cuma whatever into a life of hunting, like the rest of them. Maybe he’ll do the research since he’s the genius. 

Dean knows some shit Bobby doesn’t. For example, baby brother is hung. Bobby wouldn’t believe Sam’s dick. Skinny boy, fat cock. And he’s still growing, right?

Dean pinches his nose. Tries to derail his train of thought. It just rumbles on louder and faster until he’s got that taste, that smell, that painful sweet choking sensation in the back of his throat.

“Y’all just grew up so damn fast.”

Say it. 

“Seems like you blink, and all of a sudden…”

Three words.

“The one of you’s a grown ass man.”

I defiled Sammy.

“The other one is just about to be.”

Say it, loser. You’ll feel better. Dean covers his mouth to keep the confession from vomiting out. 

“I know you and Sam ain’t been seeing eye to eye lately, but you two need to grow up and have each other’s backs. Especially you.”

“Sam’s tough,” Dean says, because he needs it clear that he did not take advantage of some helpless little waif. 

Sam could have fought him off if he wanted to. He’s strong enough. Big enough to say if he didn’t want it.

“Yeah, he is,” Bobby says. “But he ain’t like you and your dad, all nails and grit. You got to look out for him.”

“I will, Bobby, dammit… Don’t I always?”

“Yeah, son. You sure do.” 

Bobby sounds hurt, and that’s just one more thing to feel shitty about. Dean sniffs, angles for a way to clean up. his offense

“You getting sentimental, old man?”

“Maybe I am. Still kick your scrawny ass.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

Maybe Dean ought to ask if he can come up to South Dakota place, cool off, work on some cars or something. Tell somebody what a fucking lunatic he is. It’s not like sucking is all he wants to do. How long before he fucks Sam all the way up?

Bobby chuckles. 

There ain’t nothing to tell. He and Sam were just messing around. One time thing. Nobody hurt.  
If you have sex with a dude, whatever the circumstances, you do not talk about that shit, unless you want people to think you’re a fag. You don’t talk about it.

“All right, Bobby.”

“You be good, Dean.”

They hang up and Dean wonders, not for the first time, whether that old fucker is half psychic.  
  
He peeks into their father’s room, makes sure he straightened up well. Kind of screwed up what he did with that cunt from Sam’s school, but it worked. That’s what matters. 

He wanders into his and Sam’s room. Sits on Sam’s bed. Bounces a few times. 

Be good, Dean.   
  
Fucking around with his little brother ain’t nobody’s definition of being good.  
Kissing him. Sucking him off. Ain’t good. Ain’t right. And it won’t happen again.   
Dean’s got all he needs stored up in his spank bank. Sammy’s leg muscles twitching beneath his palm. Sammy whimpering. The way he tastes, like the goddam ocean.

Dean lays back on the wrong bed. Lays there with his hands on his belly for a long time before he flicks opens the top button of his jeans.


	5. Chapter 5

As Sam shuffles to the double doors, he does a quick dip and adjusts himself in his shorts. That kicks up a whiff of something - not quite bad, but off. He scans for witnesses before giving each armpit the sniff test. He’s a little sweaty, but so far, Dollar Store deodorant is still working.

Something’s not right, though. It’s not pit stink, so much as a salty bitter smell. Like cum.

Sam stops cold and stares down at his crotch.

Everything appears in order, but he still smells it. And if Sam can smell it, other people can smell it. He turns and looks behind him. Dean’s gone.

That psycho.  
What did he just do? Why did he do that?  
What does it even mean? Are Sam and his brother not enemies anymore, or does this give Dean something bigger to hold over Sam’s head?  
Is Dean going to show up this afternoon and call Sam a fag?  
Is Sam gay? It never occurred to him before, although he’s been into Dean for years.  
Sam must be gay.  
He stands still, waiting for the epiphany to take root.  
Can he be gay if he likes girls?

Sam wipes a clammy hand down his flushed face.  
It was a weird, one-time thing. And his ancient obsession with Dean is carry-over from years of undeserved hero-worship. What Dean deserves is to go to Hell, or prison, or something.

“Fucking psycho.”

Dizzying, Sam checks the parking lot. He scans the empty field. Nobody is outside except him. He could walk away, and skip school for the first time.

And go where? And do what? It’s not like there’s anyone for him to hang out with.

If he goes in, all it would take is one asshole kid to say Sam smells like cum and his life at this school is ruined. Then again, no one talks to him. How much worse can it be?

Sam could slip into the bathroom and wash up, but there’s always the chance that someone will come in. Getting caught rinsing your junk in the sink is not exactly the best way to make friends. He’s going to have to suck it up, keep his head down, and hope that his smell is as invisible as the rest of him.

***

No surprises in first period. The teacher doesn’t call on him. Sam doesn’t raise his hand, even though he knows the answers. He sits in his third-row seat with his knees pressed together like a nun. Keeps his nose in his book.

Second-period Chemistry, Sally is waiting without her usual cadre of popular, pretty girls. In fact, they’re the first students in the class. Sam puts his head down and tries to hide behind his bangs but she’s glaring like he’s the one who shoved her around last night.

Part of him wants to go over and apologize, but if he gets too close, she might smell him, even though the odor has mostly faded.

Sally’s scowl follows him to the back of the class filling Sam with a need to explain that he is not like his brother. Dean is a sex-fueled maniac. A member of different species. He opens his book to Chapter 7 - General Principles and Processes of Isolation of Elements.

As he leans, digging in his backpack for a pencil, when a hand slams on his desk. The yellow fingernail polish is chipping. Sally’s other wrist is bandaged.

Sam’s heart beats on his tongue. “Are you okay?”  
“You need to stop looking at me.”  
Sam doesn’t point out that she came over to him. Sally leans close enough for him to smell the corn flakes when she hisses, “If you fucking so much as breathe a word —”  
“I’m not,” Sam says. “I wouldn’t… I’m not…”  
“Fucking retard.” She kicks his foot. “Just keep your mouth shut.”  
If Dean had seen Sam get owned by this girl, he’d call him worse than bitch. He’d be right, wouldn’t he? Sam spends the rest of the morning with his chin on his sternum. Doesn’t look anyone in the eye, but that’s no different from usual.

He’s got A lunch, which is insanely early. How is it even lunch at 11 o’clock? Then again their day starts at 7 and Sam’s always hungry. He shambles into the cafeteria but doesn’t make it three steps before Sally and her friends level him with cruel eyes. Now, it’s not just one girl bully on his case. It’s a whole swarm of them.

If Sally doesn’t want anyone to know, why does she have people staring like he’s some criminal? What the heck did she tell them?

He goes through the lunch line pretending to ignore the foul energy. He gets his Free Lunch of an apple, turkey sandwich and milk and retreats to his usual spot in the courtyard: under a tree with a book.

The food at North Cross is decent and he’s almost done with Frankenstein. That must be it. Sally must have said that Sam destroyed his copy of Frankenstein and now they all think he’s a vandal. Could be worse

Sam’s sandwich is short work. Dean would have inhaled it even faster. That makes Sam think about Dean’s mouth, which is always a problem. Only now, Sam’s thinking about Dean’s mouth on his cock. If he doesn’t want a boner, Sam needs to derail this train of thought.

He stands and dumps his trash. Green apple in one hand, he slings his backpack onto his shoulder and wanders around outside the school. The chilly fall air blows through the Army jacket he inherited from Dean. He grew out of last year’s winter coat last year. But the breeze is giving him something else to think about, so it’s welcome.

Sam crunches as he walks past one group of smokers, holding his breath to avoid their haze. He can usually find a solitary spot by the loading dock. Back here, if he gets a hard-on, at least he can wait it out in peace.

But there’s no peace today. A metallic bang stops his feet. An intelligent person would turn and walk in the opposite direction. Dean Winchester would run toward the scuffle and call Sam a coward if he did any different.

Dean is not here, but Sam hears low voices. What if it is their kind of thing?

He’d rather not be but is always on guard for the supernatural. He wishes he could confidently leave the pistol and blade at home, but his training won’t let him do it. It’s a Winchester in him. There’s no other way to be.

Sam creeps around and discovers a tall, blond boy with broad shoulders and beefy arms holding a skinny kid up against the dumpster. It’s a classic bully situation and not Sam’s business. The ground is littered with papers, some of them already soggy from landing in puddles left behind by last night’s storm.

Sam has his own problems.

“Give it to me, you little shit.”

The big guy is Sally’s boyfriend, Brock Fitzhugh, and there is no way he needs money. Of course, people don’t always go after what they need. Money is an excuse to rough up the smaller kid. Part of the terrorism, like Dean tossing Sam’s book. He didn’t need to do that. He’s just an asshole.

Sam’s no shorter than the perpetrator, and the other kid is smaller. There are all kinds of monsters, and Sam can’t walk away. He steps toward them and both heads swivel. Brock releases the other kid who slumps, winded.

“You have a problem?”

“Can you just leave him alone?” Even to his own ears, Sam sounds like a punk.

Brock sneers. “This freak your new boyfriend?”

That comeback has grey hairs on its balls. Sam rolls his eyes but doesn’t step closer. He’s not allowed to fight civilians.

He doesn’t want to hurt this guy, but he does want him to get lost. The kid tries to walk away and Brock shoves him back against the dumpster with another loud clang. Then, without warning, he barrels toward Sam and shoves him. The concrete is harder than his ass.

As Sam scrambles back to his feet, the smaller guy squeaks, “Brock, leave him alone.”

“You shut the fuck up!”

Sam sees the punch coming light years before it lands in his gut. He doesn’t brace. Contrary to popular belief, it’s better to be loose when you take an impact. Apparently, no one has ever taught Brock Fitzhugh how to hit.

It still hurts. The guy is not little.  
But when Sam doubles over and groans, clutching his belly, it’s mostly performance art. Brock appears satisfied by the theatrics. Sam is not as much comforted as he would be if he could rearrange this dipshit. Brock shoves the smaller guy once more.

“You better fucking find it.”

He swaggers away. Sam stands upright and sucks his teeth.

“Why did you do that?” the kid asks with his back still to the dumpster.

“Are you okay?”

“Fantastic.”

Nice gratitude. Sam’s learned from hunting that people don’t always appreciate being rescued. The kid kneels to clean up his papers. The bottoms of his pants must be getting wet, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. Sam’s work is done. He ought to walk away, but he leans to help.

“Does he bother you a lot?” he says conjuring a Karate Kid fantasy of teaching the kid to defend himself. “You don’t have to put up with that.”

“Would you just leave me alone?” The kid shakes his head, near tears. “Don’t talk to me. Just don’t.”

Wow.  
So, Sam, the freak, is that big of a pariah. What do these people know about him? Surely not what happened this morning. Do they?

Two guys and a girl bounce around the corner. Their laughter stops the moment they see Sam and the smaller guy, who’s still on his knees. One of them points a pack of cigarettes between them.

“Now, this is great.”

That breaks the silent spell on the others. They all howl as they walk back the way they came.  
The bullied kid stands with his arms full of unorganized papers.

“Would you please get away from me?”

Freaky Sam spends the rest of the day with his mind in a gray fog. He highly preferred when his peers were indifferent. Now, at least three people who consider him an enemy.

This is the first time he’s ever hated school. If school isn’t safe, nowhere is safe.

Worse, it’s almost the end of the day and Sam has no idea what to expect from his brother. He sinks behind his desk in last period World History. The red second hand on the wall clock flies around its face. 47 minutes to doom.

Will Dean even be there? Or is Sam going to have to ride the bus? Does he have enough cash? If Dean tries something again, Sam won’t allow it. That was a one-off, totally weird thing. He is never ever doing something like that with his brother again. It’s disgusting, right? Incest is illegal for a reason. It’s gross. Why did Sam ever think it would be hot?

Well, it’s not like he thinks of Dean as his brother when he’s beating off. Sam thinks of this hot guy with these amazing lips, and these incredible hands, and eyes that …

Okay, this has to stop. Now.

What Dean did felt amazing. And at the time, Sam couldn’t even believe it was happening. That’s the only reason he didn’t fight. But now he’s had time to think about it, he realizes how disturbed they both are: Dean for doing it and Sam for allowing it.

If Dean comes anywhere near him, Sam is going to bust out his lights. They’re in different weight classes, but he can hold his own. Dean can’t force him to do anything.

He looks around his class. If any of them knew about his morning, they’d say a lot worse than Freak.

“And Sam Winchester.”

Before Sam can process why his name was called, the class erupts. Everyone, except Sam, scatters from their seats and huddle in pairs. Milo Ferguson who Sam only knows by name is standing in front of his desk, arms folded, scowling down.

Milo has smooth, earth-brown skin, high hair, and a severe look on his broad features. He’s one of two black kids in the school. You’d think he’d be friendly to another outsider. That’s apparently not how it works.

Why do they all hate Sam so badly today?

“You’re friends with Preston Scott?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Milo Ferguson frowns, doubtful, but he follows up with another question: “How’s your GPA?”

“4.1.”

Milo lifts his chin in the air before he finally nods. “Okay.”

They’ve been paired for a report on Charlemagne. If the guy is pissed to be his partner now, he’s going to love the part when Sam and his family disappear before he gets to participate. It’s happened dozens of times. Supposedly, Bobby has talked their dad into sticking around Roanoke this entire school year, but that’s never happened.

The final bell rings. While everyone else scurries out of the door, Sam stays glued to his seat for a whole five minutes. It’s only when the teacher asks if he needs something that he says, “No, ma’am.”

Sam shuffles like a death row inmate from his locker to the front door. On his way, he passes Ms. Jeffries’ room. That kid is in there, the rude one Brock Fitzhugh was having for lunch. He doesn’t wave or nod, and Sam has bigger problems.

It would have been better if Dean had forgotten him. Instead, his brother is standing beside his truck with Sally. She’s gazing up at him like he’s a gold-plated statue, and that’s how he looks. Perfect. Gilded by the afternoon sunlight. He nods at something Sally says, eyes scanning the crowd.

For Sam. He’s looking for Sam whose pulse revs into overdrive.

When their eyes meet across the schoolyard the corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up. Sam’s heart does a triple-beat skip thing he didn’t know was possible. This is the way Dean gets girls to throw their panties at him. With a god damn look. What is this guy even made out of?

Sally grabs Dean’s arm and his attention. He looks down at her. Sam’s feet stutter. He diverts his eyes, in case they kiss. He doesn’t want to see it.

That skinny bullied boy has slipped outside by the bicycle rack, staring like Sam owes him an apology. He shakes his head two seconds before someone shoves Sam and he goes flying down the front steps. He lands on his hands and knees, scraping up his palms like fire. A crowd of kids bound down the stairs cackling, Brock Fitzhugh among them. His previous victim is flying away on his bike.

By the time Sam makes it to his feet, Dean is beside him. Sally is walking away under Brock’s arm, gazing back over her shoulder. Dean doesn’t seem to notice.

“What the hell happened?”

“I fell.”

“You fell?”

Sam nods, face hot with anger and humiliation. Dean already thinks he’s clumsy. He says so all the time during training. Klutz. Fuckup. Now, Dean just watched him face plant down the stairs and Sam can hardly meet his brother’s eyes. He dusts off his stinging palms and starts toward the truck.

As they’re walking, Dean gives a tiny shove from behind and Sam trips over his feet. Everybody is coming for him today. Is there a fucking target on his back?

When he turns around to confront his brother and really let him have it, Dean is wearing the hottest smirk in history. Not for some cute cashier in a convenience store. All for Sam. Dean's lazy gaze travel from Sam’s eyes to his crotch and back, leaving a trail of flames so vicious Sam can’t even speak.


	6. Chapter 6

In the truck, Dean turns on country music, real low so Sam can hear him humming along despite his own pulse pounding in his ears. Every atom in his body is electrified. The tires scrape over the road and his jaw is clenched. Teeth clamped tight in his dry mouth.

When his brother parks at that playground, their playground, Sam considers jumping out of the door and running like hell. Like he should have done the first time. But he holds his ground.

It’s still an hour or two before elementary lets out. There’s just a lady walking a dog and a couple of women with toddlers.

“Let’s see those hands,” Dean says.

Whatever it takes to resist, Sam doesn’t have it. He burns, watching his brother study his palms like he’s looking for the future.

“Not too bad.”

Nurse Dean pulls his first aid kit from under the seat, treats each hand with a drop of iodine before he tweezes out dirt and pebbles. If it hurts, Sam wouldn’t know. He’s too busy squeezing his thighs together, pleading with his body not to do this.

Dean looks up at him. So close. That mouth. God, why?

“Anything I should know?” Dean asks. “Somebody giving you shit?”

Sam hasn’t been bullied since he was 11 years old. Hasn’t come running to his big bro for backup since then. He grew four inches that year and it stopped being a problem. That’s also around the time when Dean started becoming the jackass he is today.

Their dad sent him away that summer. Dean came back quiet, at first. Then, all of a sudden, he started being this gigantic jerk. The rest is the history leading to this moment, sitting in the truck, watching little kids swing. Wishing his brother would make a move. Praying he doesn’t.

“All right, then.”

The engine coughs, sputters and grumbles awake. Dean pats the dashboard like she’s a trusty mare.

They return to the apartment. Sam does his homework. Dean cooks spaghettios. “Cook” is generous. He warms them, but they are Sam’s very favorite canned pasta product. That probably doesn't mean anything.

They eat in silence. Sam washes the dishes. Dean settles on the sofa with the remote control on his lap and ER on the screen. When he’s finished, rather than retreat to the bedroom like he usually would, Sam stands at the opposite arm of the couch.

Dean points with his beer. “What do you think of that guy?”

Sam doesn’t watch this show, but his initial impression is that the dark-haired actor is sleazy and gross. Even though he’s supposed to be a doctor, he reminds Sam of Dean: hot idiot. Rather than reply, Sam shrugs.

He perches on the arm of the sofa, maintaining three safe feet between them. Not that Dean has shown any interest in doing anything. That’s a good thing, right?  
Yeah. It’s good because that way, Sam doesn’t have to be mean and tell his brother to back off. They don’t have to fight about it. Things have been amazingly peaceful tonight. Maybe what happened between them just took of the edge.

“You want to watch something else?” Dean asks.

Now that’s a first.

“What else is on?” Sam asks.

Dean’s offer of the remote is an olive branch that’s never been extended. Sam reaches for it and Dean snatches it back out of reach. That’s more like his brother. At least Sam doesn’t have to worry he’s been possessed.

“Why are you sitting all the way the hell over there?”

Sam freezes.

“Come here, Sam.”

Holding his breath, Sam lets himself sink onto the other side of the sofa.

“You scared of me now?”

Horrified.

“Here.” He offers the remote again. “Take it.”

Sam does and begins flicking around, rigidly aware of Dean scooting closer. He lands on the History Channel. WWII. The Germans bomb England in black and white while Dean slides an arm around Sam’s neck.

“Just relax. Why are you so tense?”

Dean presses his thumb into Sam’s brachial plexus. Fire shoots out across Sam’s shoulder and down his arm.

“Ow.”

He reflexively throws an elbow into his brother’s sternum. Dean coughs and laughs.

“You think somebody’s going to hurt you or something?”

Sam shakes his head. The people on screen are fleeing their village. Sam’s in peril, too, but he can’t even peel his ass off the sofa. Dean is breathing in one ear. No, he’s kissing it. Lips tugging Sam’s lobe. His arm is wrapped around Sam’s head, the other is wide and warm on his chest. Now, there’s a tongue in Sam’s ear canal. He shakes like a cat and Dean backs off.

“Sorry.”

Sam wipes away the moisture.

“If you don’t want it—”

“I do,” Sam says, too fast, like his pulse. “I do.”

But nothing happens. Dean’s arm stays draped around his shoulder, but he’s not doing anything.

Yes, he is. He’s waiting. For Sam to prove that he’s into it.

Carefully, cautiously, he touches Dean’s knee with two fingertips. Not enough. Sam swallows what feels like a lump of glue, twists and reaches across to touch Dean’s arm. His hand rests in the warm crook of his brother’s elbow. Still, no response. He touches Dean’s neck. His face. He scruffles his stubble with his fingernails. Studies his amazing lips and leans in for a kiss.

Dean pounces. He mashes their faces together, squashing Sam’s nose, pressing his spine awkwardly against the arm of the sofa. It’s no time for complaints, but is kissing supposed to hurt? Sam’s only done it twice and with the same partner.  
Both times, it’s been slimy and sloppy and toothy. Dean's chin scrapes like sandpaper. In movies, it doesn’t really look like this feels. But Dean is the expert.

It definitely feels right, the way he’s reaching between them, pushing up Sam’s shirt. Warm, firm fingers sliding over his skin, pinching his nipple, kicking up a rage of flames. The ferocious kiss grows fiercer while Dean jerks Sam’s belt loose.

Here we go.

But before they get anywhere, Dean leaps all the way on top of him. Crushing. Grinding his boner against Sam’s thigh until there’s lava in his veins, but also the sofa arm still in his back.

“Dean. Dean... Can we—”

“Huh?”

Dean’s eyes are so wide he looks half his age.

“Can we go to the bedroom?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

Dean stands and gives Sam space to stand. To walk on his wobbly legs surreal as floating through saltwater.

It’s not too late to call it off. To change his mind. To run in and lock the door. This is Sam’s brother. His asshole brother. Not just illegal, but ill-advised.

In the hall, before Sam reaches the room, Dean forces him against the wall and presses solid chest to his back. Dean’s wood is in a noticeably different location now. Dean places Sam’s hands on either side of his head. The lacerations from his fall bite but not enough to steal focus from Dean’s body rolling against him in waves.

Dean pulling down Sam’s pants with a hand and then his foot until they’re around his ankles.

Sam’s nervous system spirals into uncharted levels of heat and want. Dean’s other arm clamps around his chest, hand gripping his throat. Both mouths falls open. Sam squeaks a word even he can’t understand as a rough, dry palm wraps around his shaft and strokes a few times before taking hold of his hip bone and pinning him to the wall, crotch to crack.

“Hot as fuck, Sammy. You know that?”

Dean smashes his face into Sam's cheek. Hard to tell which of them is breathing faster. Hard to tell much of anything with the world spinning like this.

Dean lets him go and steps back, leaving an awful sense of cold and loss. Sam glances over his shoulder.

“Don’t move.”

Dean’s buckle jingles as he slides his jeans down around his ass. They’re dropping bombs in the other room. Thunderous and savage as Sam’s heart. This would be the right time for their dad to walk in.

There’s no explaining this away. Just like there’s no fighting it. Sam does what his brother says. He doesn’t move. Lets Dean jostle him into the position he wants: legs wide as they’ll go in the denim shackle, ass jutting, hands and face on the wall.

Wait a minute. Is this... what exactly is happening? The pre-historic lizard in Sam’s brain tells him to kick back and run. But mostly it’s liquid in his skull. Warm, runny, thick-sweet as molasses.

And Dean’s fingertips are trailing down his back. Big brother knows what he’s doing.

Sam tenses when something (fingers? cock???) slides between his cheeks.

Is this seriously happening?

Dude! Are you seriously letting this happen? Reptilian brain shrieks again.

Then, the sweet sliding and gentle caressing that had melted Sam a moment ago become one hand holding open his cheek and something pointy trying to puncture its way inside of him.

Isn’t there an opening back there? Sam’s asshole, hello? Dean’s dick ought to slide in, right? And feel good, right? Sex is supposed to feel good.

They don’t teach this in Sex Ed, but it shouldn’t be much different. Not that Sam ever had sex with a girl, but Dean has. Plenty. He ought to know what he’s doing.

But it feels like he’s working with a blade and Sam is losing confidence. He grits his teeth, glances over his shoulder and tries to see.

“Be still.”

“It hurts.”

“Just fucking be still, Sam.”

“Dean.”

“It’s almost there…”

Dean's hips jam forward, puncturing.  
Sam yells and rolls away. He pulls up his pants. “That fucking hurt.”

“Let me try again.”

“No.”

Dean reaches for him, but Sam bolts into the bathroom, locks the door and checks his ass with tissue to be sure he’s not bleeding. He should have known Dean would wreck something. Stupid brute. Stupid Sam for letting him do that.

God, what the hell was he thinking?


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Sam awakens to real scrambled eggs drenched in greasy sharp cheddar, but it’s the best damn thing he’s eaten in this apartment since they moved here. He mumbles, “thanks” around the first bite.

Dean stands by the sink watching him eat. It’s too weird. Is there something in it? Would Dean dose him? Then what? Sam puts down his fork and sits back in his chair. Should probably say something, like I forgive you. Or can we just be cool?  
He doesn’t speak. Neither does Dean.

It’s a shame to scarf down a breakfast that should be savored, but the quicker he can get out of here, the better. He’d spent the night in the bathtub, like a dork, ignoring his brother’s banging and claim to need to pee.

Maybe he did need to go, but it’s not like Dean hasn’t had sex with multiple women in their building. There’s always somewhere else he can go.

On the drive to school, Dean pulls over at their playground and leaves the car running, with the heat blowing on their feet.

Sam keeps his arms folded and his eyes straight ahead on the slide. “Would you drive me to school, please?”

“You’re just going to be a bitch about this?”

“I want to be on time.”

“Relax, Sammy. It’s just sex.”

As Dean’s hand slides around his neck, Sam lashes out like a wild animal in a cage. His punch connects with Dean’s jaw, loud and clear, although he hadn’t intended to hit quite so hard. If he apologizes now, all Dean will hear is weakness.

“I don’t like it, okay?” Sam says firmly, grateful his voice holds.

Dean nods, working his jaw back and forth.

“Okay.”

He puts the truck in gear, drops Sam off, and peels rubber pulling away.

***

This would be a great time to kill something. Unfortunately, nothing out here deserves to die.  
Sam? Dean? They both have it coming. They’ll get theirs during some hunt sooner or later.

Dean’s way the fuck up in the mountains. He finds a clearing among the trees, settles back against a stone and drains the first beer of the day at 9AM. Nobody to bother him or look at him funny. That’s one good thing about Virginia: folks don’t mind shooting up here anyway. Only, he’s not drinking out of a can today, so he lines up brown glass bottles on a fallen log. Then a little bunny scampers by, and he can’t do it, because the god damn shards will get into their paws.

He blasts chunks out of trees for a while, pretending he’s a sniper, outside of a grocery store, or Sam’s school with a long-range rifle taking out whoever comes into view.

Then, he gets an idea for perfect construction and spends over an hour seeking huge-ass boulders, big as his torso, using a stick to dig them out whenever necessary and grunting as he lifts and sets them up in a crude pyramid half his height. Seriously makes you wonder how the hell those Egyptians built the real things.

Dean is a sweating, filthy mess by the time he’s ready to fire the first bullet. But the exertion has also diffused his anger.

Stones are better targets than bodies, not because they give a good response, but because Dean doesn’t want to go to jail. Dean would not thrive in jail. He’d fight and hold his own, but he’d be outnumbered by guys making comments about his mouth

BOOM

and his legs

BOOM

and his ass

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Probably, nobody ever says anything about Sam’s small, dainty mouth that he uses mostly for making bitch comments.

“Would you just drive me to school?” Dean does a good Sam impression.

BOOM

“I don’t want to be late.”

Bullets bounce off the rock, chipping away piece after piece. Some of them ricochet back at Dean. The right chip of rock, flying at the right speed, in the right trajectory, and that would be that.

Not that Dean wants to die. Not that he doesn’t want to die.  
What would Sam say? Would he even give a shit? Or would he stand at the pyre with a straight face? His little bitch mouth tight and wordless. Eyes dry.

Dean fires wildly, misses entirely. He’s not in it anymore. He opens another beer and drinks it in one slog.

This is bullshit. He could have anyone he wants. Older, younger, male, female, black, white, busty Asian chicks. The one person he wants doesn’t want him back, because Sam is not a mindless animal like Dean is.

They’re like that Schwarzenegger/DeVito movie. Sam got all the good genes, and Dean was made from the slop at the bottom of the genetic barrel. People like his body, the way he looks, but what good is that when he’s all fucked up inside?

He fires at the stone, willing a chunk to pierce between his eyes.  
It’s no wonder Sam doesn’t want him. No wonder he runs away.

But Dean is not going to let that fly. He’ll fucking take it if he has to.  
Come on seriously? Would he do that?  
Yeah. Fuck, yes.  
And then he’ll put one of these bullets in Sam’s brain, and one in his own.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, burrows the heel of a palm in his socket, trying to scrub away the image of hurting his brother.

It’s always like this. Why couldn’t he get an ounce of Sam’s decency, a scrap of Sam smarts, a dash of Sam’s kindness? Why did Dean have to be the waste?

He lets his face burn, sniffs once, but keeps the tears in their place, behind his fucking eyeballs.

***

Apparently, Sam developed a communicable disease overnight because everyone in school scowls, or avoids him like a leper. Sally doesn’t even look up when Sam places Frankenstein on her desk and mumbles, “Thanks.”

The only eye contact he has all day is from a teacher asking after his homework. Otherwise, it’s not worse than usual, but there’s an insidious undertone to the isolation, like everyone’s in collusion against him. Sam’s probably being paranoid because his butt still kind of hurts, and he still kind of hates Dean. That must be exacerbating everything.

Dean would lose his shit if he knew Sam’s thought vocabulary includes words like exacerbate. It’s a good word that sums up the mountain Sam’s making out of this molehill. No one ever talks to him. This is not different.

But the day gets different at lunch when Sam finds himself yanked into a standing position, two fists grabbing his shirt. His food spills to the ground.

Five seconds ago, Sam had been peacefully enjoying his ham sandwich. Now, he’s reluctantly inhaling Brock Fitzhugh’s hot Dorito breath, growing intimately familiar with the green morsel stuck between his eyetooth and his left incisor. The tree trunk scrapes his back. Everyone is watching like they’re Primetime.

Sam’s face flushes even before Brock asks, “How’s it going, little freak?”

Behind him, Sally appears ready to vomit. She grabs Brock’s arm. He shakes her off like a fly.

“That little twerp is so not worth it,” she argues on Sam’s behalf.

“Just fucking with him, Sal. Where’s your boyfriend, freak?”

This is an outcome Sam should have considered. He distracted the lion from its natural prey and put himself on the snack menu.

“Listen…”

Brock slams him against the tree again. There is no ideal end to this situation. There’s the version where a teacher breaks it up and suspends them both. Or the one where Brock throws a few of his sloppy punches at Sam’s face.

Sam casts one jab to the throat with half the intensity he’d use in sparring. No anger, just measured force. Brock drops Sam’s shirt to clutch his own neck, garbling like a fish in the desert. He doubles over, choking while Sally helplessly pats his back. Sam has been on the receiving end of a throat blow, courtesy of his dad and his brother. He’d feel bad for Brock if the guy wasn’t a dick.

Sam has won enough time to collect his things and scram. Hopefully, he’s also sent Brock the message that he’s not good prey. He’s not going to roll over and take it for anyone.

Although last night, maybe, he should have for Dean.

Sam shakes away the thought and trudges down the hall in search of a good place to hide for the rest of lunch ... Well, not hide so much as relax undetected…

Maybe, they could have talked about it. Sam didn’t have to run and hide in the bathroom. Like he’s running now. Jesus, no wonder Dean calls him names. If Sam had half of one of his brother’s balls, he’d beat Brock’s ass and accept the consequences.

A ray of hope in C hall: Ms Jeffries’ door is always open. Sam doesn’t have her for any classes but she’s young, dresses brightly, and has a schoolwide reputation for being quote “awesome.”

She’s Native American or Hispanic, maybe. Pretty and artsy. Smiles a lot. Always wears those long flower-print hippy skirts. Not Dean’s type at all. Then again, Sam wouldn’t have thought he was Dean’s type either.

His brother has tried to do stuff twice. Three times, if you count that awful first kiss, which Sam does.

He counts it, but he still can’t figure out why? Is Dean just horny and too lazy to go to a bar? All he has to do is shower, drive three miles, and smile in any girl’s direction. Sam has seen that magic in action. He possesses none of what Dean’s got. If he wasn’t a smart kid, he’d wonder what purpose he serves.

Even their dad is impressed at how Dean pulls women, and John never has any difficulty. Once or twice, when he’s been in a wagering mood, their dad has laid down a twenty dollar bill and nodded at a waitress. The two elder Winchesters crank up the heat on their flirting machines while Sam wishes he could crawl under the table until it’s over. You can almost smell the waitress’ panties melting.

Sam’s not ugly, but he’s nowhere near as attractive as any of the girls Dean gets. So, what the hell? Why now, all of a sudden, does Dean want him? Thinking about it makes Sam’s headache.

“You can come in,” Ms. Jeffries says, sitting at her desk, marking papers.

That kid, Brock’s usual victim, is at the chalkboard, drawing. It’s official. Sam is hiding. There’s denying it. He’s at the gate of the coward’s cove. If Sam enters, he might as well by the t-shirt.

CHICKEN

But isn’t it better to look like a coward than to be a murderer? And if that guy keeps messing with him, Sam is going to kill him.

“No thanks, I—”

The warm, solid sensation of a body close behind him is familiar from last night. Sam’s body floods hot before he has all the information. The thermostat flips to a hard freeze when Brock rasps over his shoulder, “Hey, Ms J. How’s it going, Preston?”

The kid at the blackboard doesn’t turn around, but his arm halts mid-stroke.

Sam starts to step away, but Brock holds his belt loop. Sam could throw an elbow, but would it be worth the fallout?

“So, it’s a party, now,” Ms. Jeffries smiles. “Come on in, boys.”

“Nah. Just saying hi,” Brock says and then whispers, “Can’t hide forever, pussy.”

He leaves Sam with an epiphany. If he’s so bright, he should have realized before: Dean is dominating him. It’s not about sex or attraction. It’s intimidation. Nothing more.

Alpha dog bullshit.

***

Eventually, Dean drinks up his last two bottles and drives back to town. He drifts past the library on his left, the town hall on his right. Down Main street, taking a left on Allen Road which takes him past that bar with the tiny rainbow flag in the window.

Fag flag.

He stops at the light, hangs left instead of the right that would take him back to the apartment. Circles the block, passes that flag again. Turns left again and cruises down the alley behind that row of establishments. He’s got business with these queers.

Unwilling to be seen out front in broad daylight, Dean knocks on the back door. He tries the knob. Rattles it. Bangs. Nothing.

He could go around and break a glass. Get in that way.

The windows on this place are boarded every few weeks from somebody tossing around a brick. Dean gets it. All in a drunken evening's good fun. A little vandalism is not the same as breaking necks or noses.

But this is the middle of the day and no homos are home.

Dean sits in his truck considering the next move. He could go back to the apartment and sit around. Or he could drive over to Sam’s school, jerk him out of class, thrash him bloody and fuck him senseless.

Dean sniffs and wipes snot onto his sleeve. Better to just sit there. It’s boring but no worse than casing a place for a hunt.

Finally, after a couple hours, he gets a bite. A guy, about their dad’s age, strolls down the alley. He’s short, but decent looking under a cloud of dark curls. His T-shirt and jeans fit normal. Nothing too tight or bright. The guy might be Mexican or something but he doesn’t look gay. Sure enough, he’s got keys to The Park.

Dean hops out of his truck and manages three steps before the Spic pulls a knife.

Momentarily stunned, he raises both hands. It would take one second to disarm this fairy and mess up his day, bad. Break his wrist, his arm, any assortment of fingers. Been a while since Dean broke anything.

He takes another step. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Yeah, right, gorgeous.”

That accusation cuts like a lash and Dean spits on the ground between them.

“Why don’t you get out of here?”

No threat to call the cops. Dean shifts his weight and the guy grips his blade tighter, shoulders raised. Probably never cut anybody.

“You got three seconds, kid.”

Dean hasn’t planned this out. He's not going to blurt out the situation. This thing requires set up. And he’s on the wrong end of the blade. He could end this showdown and put this sissy in his place. Half Dean’s mind says to grab the knife, slit the pillowbiter's throat and let him bleed out in the alley. The other half reminds him to get answers first.

“All right. Listen.” Dean clears his throat. “I need help with this guy I want to fuck.”


	8. Chapter 8

Sam enters Miss Jeffries’ room and chooses a desk with a clear view of Preston's work on the blackboard. He used to love to watch his dad complete his sketches, even though the end result was always some nightmare. Preston is drawing a unicorn. Not soft and sweet, but a hulking, muscular, life-like stallion with a swirling horn and impressive genitalia.

The artiste is skinnier than Sam, covering his bones with a grey hoodie and faded black jeans that sag off his ass. Does this kid not own a belt? Or clean sneakers? He’s wearing expensive skater shoes that look like he wades through mud. Sam’s dad would not accept anything about Preston’s dress. He would also never let Sam wear his hair shaggy and long like that. And Dean would never let up about it.

The style suits Preston, though. It completes his distressed, starving Bohemian look. Sam can already see him in 20 years, chalking intricate landscapes on some cosmopolitan sidewalk. He grins at the image but drops the smile when Preston glances over his shoulder.

The guy is decent looking, but he’s no Dean. Then again, who is? Preston’s features are vulturesque, which Sam wouldn’t say out loud, but there’s something in his sharp eyes, long, thin nose and downturned mouth that makes him look hungry and impatient. He’s an interesting looking kid, making incredible art, which is why Sam keeps getting caught staring.

Finally, he pulls out a textbook. Chem. Whatever.

“It’s Sam, right?” Miss Jeffries asks.

Nod.

“Winchester?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Preston peeks at Sam again, but still doesn’t speak.

The teacher gestures with her pen. “Do you two know each other?” 

Preston nods so Sam does the same.

“Well, there’s no silence policy in here.” She walks to the door mumbling about making copies.

“Oh,” Sam says, standing. “Do you want me to—”

“No. Thank you. I’ve got it. Did you get your lunch?”

“Not hungry.”

“You sound like Preston,” she says. “You two will get along great. Pres, tell him about the play.”

With that, she disappears from the room. Sam focuses on his textbook: face down, but perfectly aware of Preston dropping his chalk, dusting off his hands and turning around.

“Are you here to kick my ass?”

“What?”

“You heard what they’re saying, and now you want to kill me.”

Sam blinks, but the statement doesn't compute. He stood up for this kid, took a punch for him and has become the preferred target for his bully. What more does he want?

“There’s no way you didn’t hear.”

“People don’t talk to me.” Sam chuckles, but it’s not funny.

Preston looks at the door, preparing to run away or divulge a huge secret. He shifts his weight, scratches his neck.

“Spit it out?”

“Justin Haack told everyone in the school that he found me around by the loading dock on my knees … with you.”

Panic reverberates throughout Sam's body. That would explain the schoolwide cold shoulder and Brock’s friendly attention. That story is insane. Where would they… oh.

“Well, that is, technically, true.”

Preston snickers. “Everybody already thinks I’m gay, so, welcome to the club.”

Sam hadn’t thought that. He’d thought Preston was rude and ungrateful, but he didn’t guess he likes guys. Why would that even matter? As for Sam liking guys… there’s Dean, of course. Growing up with the best-looking male on the planet is possibly why Sam has always seen that some guys are just hot. Just like some girls are hot.

Sure, Dean has talked trash about gays, but Dean is an asshole. He talks crap about all kinds of people, including Sam.

“You’re not pissed at me?” Preston asks.

Sam is pissed at Brock Fitzhugh for being a dick. He’s impressed with people’s imagination, and the cancerous spread of rumors. He has spent the entire day being ostracized because of somebody’s stupid lie. If Preston has to deal with that crap all the time, no wonder he’s kind of rude.

He stands and walks over to the blackboard, standing a few feet away, but side by side with the kid. Preston picks up the chalk and touches up a hoof.

“Where’d you learn to draw?”

The kid shrugs. “Just always have.”

“It’s pretty wicked.”

Preston’s mouth curves into a half-smile.

“Can you do a dragon?”

Preston begins to outline the spiky head when Ms. Jeffries returns. “Did you tell him about the play, Pres?”

“There’s a play,” Preston says without turning around.

Ms. Jeffries launches into further detail, handing Sam the warm flyer from the top of her pile.

Once Upon a Mattress

“You have leading man written all over you, Sam?”

Preston glances over, his smirk is a permanent feature now.

“No, thanks.” Sam tries to hand back the paper. “I don’t think… We probably won’t be here that long.”

In principle, he’s not disinterested. He’s learned the ugly way never to get involved in extra-curricular activities. It’s just one less thing to miss when they leave town.

***

This conversation could only take place one on one, in an otherwise empty bar, in the middle of the afternoon.

Marco pushes Dean’s vodka shot across the bar. “Now, what do you mean not working?”

“Is there, like, a best position or something?”

“First time, I’d say lay him on his belly, but are we trying to convince this boy or pleasure him?”

“Both.”

“Okay. I’m confused.” Marco shakes his head and closes his eyes. “Start from the beginning.”

There's Sam’s birth which predates all this madness. When did _this_ start? Dean knows, but he’s sure as shit not telling this guy. He already hates himself for being in here. Why did this seem like a good idea? Anybody could come in and see him.

“How long have you known him?” Marco asks, pouring himself a drink.

Some variation on the truth makes a lie easier to recall. “Um... forever. We grew up together.”

“Cute. So, I take it he’s straight and you’re—”

“No.” Dean winces. “I’m not anything. I just … I want him.”

“You want to fuck him?”

“I already said that.”

“And you don’t want to hurt him.”

“Well, obviously.”

“Not obviously,” Marco says. “You said something’s not working. I’m trying to get the full landscape here.”

“It’s simple. I want to fuck him so good he begs for more.”

Finally, Marco nods his appreciation. That’s a goal he can get behind. “You love him?”

Dean squints like high noon. Why is that relevant?

“Simple question. However you define it. Do you love the guy?”

“Yes.”

“Did it cost you something to admit that?”

Dean takes a loud inhale and shakes his head. He’s not going to knock this guy out until he has all his answers. “No. I love him. He knows that.”

“Okay. Good. That’s something to work with. It’s an entirely different conversation if you just want to screw some random hot guy.”

“Fine. I love him. I want to fuck him. I don’t want to hurt him. In any way.”

One of Marco’s plucked brows raises. “Where were boys like you when I was young?”

Dean knocks back his shot and then taps the bar for another hit.

The barkeep fills him up and strokes his chin. “Well, the first question is whether you have to go all the way?”

Dean’s head tilts in confusion. Is that a real question? Sam is the only good person he knows. Of course, Dean wants to enter him, become part of him, plow his way inside like a parasite, burrow under his skin and stay there.

“I mean, could you be satisfied with a kiss, or a BJ?”

Dean’s had both. He’s not satisfied.

“A lot of guys are weirder about affection with another male than, say, receiving oral. You could offer to go down on him.”

“I already did that.”

“And?”

Dean shrugs. “It was awesome. I thought it was awesome. He… I thought we were going to go all the way, and then he backed out, and now he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Saying this shit out loud hurts even worse.

“Okay.” Marco nods, useless, like a shrink. “A lot of guys don’t like penetration at all. Have you ever been on the receiving —”

“Hell, no.” And Dean is sticking to that story like burnt rubber on asphalt.

“Okay, well, maybe that’d be a good place to start. You learning what it feels like will make you a better top. Like sampling your own cooking.” Marco smiles and starts to wipe the bar “For you, I’d make an exception.”

“Generous.”

“That reminds me, how’s the ... merchandise?” Marco gestures vaguely in the direction of Dean’s package. "Obviously, it’s a significant question, Dean. You’re going to need lube regardless but—”

“Lube?”

“Jesus, son. if you didn’t use lube, there’s your salvation right there.” Marco grabs a pencil, a stack of Post-its and scribbles a short list. “I don’t assume a boy like you is a virgin.”

Dean doesn’t waste his breath on an answer.

“You ever use your tongue on a girl?”

“Sure.”

“Good. The same principle applies,” Marco says. “You want him nice and wet and supple. The best-case scenario for your friend is that you take longer getting him ready than you spend inside of him.”

Dean's nose curls. 

“I mean, you can always just ram right in there but it’s going to be better if he’s loose, and happy, and well-lubed, and he trusts you, and you really honor that. Also, alcohol helps.”

“He doesn’t really drink. Like maybe one beer.”

“Well, then. Lube and condoms and —”

"I don't use rubbers, man.”

“That’s why you need to with this guy.” Marco shrugs. “If you care about him. And be patient: there’s my advice.”

Dean nods.

“And if he still doesn’t want it ... you walk away.”

Record scratch.

“I mean, that goes without saying, right?”

“Sure.”

“Because we’re not date rape guys, right, Dean? We don’t roofy people and then say they were into it.”

“I never had to roofy anyone in my life.” Some girls need a little coaxing to the finish line, but Dean Winchester doesn’t beg, pay or dose.

“Ok, Casanova. I’m just saying, if he doesn’t want it, there are other fish.”

There are no other fish. Dean has never wanted a single one of the skanks he’s boned. He’s just got to stick it somewhere and they’re always wet and willing. Sam is… sweet, smart, stuck up, and the only fucking person on earth Dean wants. Sick as it is.

“Look, bottom line,” Marco takes Dean’s shotglass. “If you like this guy, take him out. Do something nice. Don’t be in such a rush. Give him a little present, maybe. Make him laugh.”

“So, treat him like a girl?”

“Treat him like someone you want to be around. Someone you love. And would like to, maybe, eventually, fuck.”

Dean tries to shake the nonsense into his head.

“Or be a dick to him, and see where that gets you.”

Lube is good to know, but most of this advice is crap. Dean just wasted 12 bucks and an hour for a private audience with some queer who has no idea what he’s talking about.

Marco says. “With that face, I don’t see you having many problems.”

Dean stands and lays his cash on the bar. Marco doesn’t touch it.

“This one is on me, kid,” he says. “Knock him dead.”


	9. Chapter 9

The end is near. Time is flying, but not because it's fun watching the clock. In thirteen minutes, Sam has to face Dean. The teacher is talking about their projects but her voice is warbled as if she’s underwater. He pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a few deep breaths, pulse thundering in his ears.

No way out but through.

Maybe he should have handled last night differently, and this morning. Dean must be pissed. And he’s barely tolerable in a good mood.

“What do you think of that?”

Milo Ferguson is standing at Sam’s desk again, arms folded, awaiting an answer to a question Sam didn’t hear. People glance at them and Milo rolls his eyes. It’s a real hardship being paired with the grade’s biggest outcast: “gay” “freak” Sam Winchester.

Geez. How did it come to this? Damned at home, damned at school. Might as well drop the gun in his next battle and let the Whatever end the misery.

“So, can you come to my place or what?”

Sam blinks and cocks his head. He can count the playdates he’s had on two fingers. They don’t call it that at this age. Sam doesn’t go to peoples’ houses.

“Yeah. Sure,” he says before the invitation is revoked.

Milo lists library books he’s checked out for research. Sam nods. His pulse is still speeding, but now, it’s about the unprecedented change of plans. He scribbles Milo’s address and tries not to appear too excited or nervous. When the final bell rings, everyone scrambles from the room.

“Hey, Milo. I don’t actually know where that is,” Sam admits.

“It’s, like, less than a mile.”

The right thing would be to face Dean and explain this project. It would be a less cowardly approach. Officially, Dean is in charge. But his brother is also the person who taught Sam that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. Not that Dean ever does either.

Sam deserves a break from the Winchester weirdness. Just for one afternoon.

“Can you meet me out back?” he asks.

Milo squints in obvious annoyance. “Whatever.”

Dean has never stepped inside this school. Still, Sam glances over his shoulder as he quickly clears his locker and rushes down the hall, away from the main office and front entrance. It’s a rare occasion that he does something he knows is wrong. It’s kind of exhilarating. No wonder Dean does it all the time.

That kid, Preston, is at the other end of D hall, on the left. He flashes a small smile of recognition.  
They’re in different grades, use different halls, have different classes. This is the first time Sam has ever seen him outside of Ms. Jeffries’ room.

Are they friends? What’s the protocol? Preston asked Sam not to talk to him. Then, they’d kind of connected around the drawing. Social stuff is hard. Is Sam supposed to wave? Say hi? Stop by Preston’s locker and talk?

The kid closes his locker and someone shoves him into the door with a loud clang. All the kids around crack into laughter. It wasn’t even Brock. Some other random guy who passes Sam, celebrating with his idiot friends.

Now, Preston is staring at his Vans. He shuffles past Sam without saying hello or even looking at him.  
Self-preservation is a strong instinct. Sam does the same even though the choice tastes like shit.  
He makes it to the backdoor safely, but no Milo.

Figures.

The alternative is riding in that truck with Dean. No way. Better to walk the whole way than be stuck in there with his cologne, and his music, and his singing, and his hand on the clutch.

A bike tire scrapes over concrete as Milo skids around the corner, kicking up dust. No helmet. He’s followed closely by Kai Yoon, a kid from Sam’s Trig, Chem and PE classes. They’ve never exchanged more words than necessary to get the dodgeball where it needs to go.

He surveys Sam, then glances around like he’s scared to be seen in present company.

“Allright, ladies,” Milo hollers. “Let’s move.”

He glides ahead, standing on his pedals. Kai walks his bike beside Sam but doesn’t speak. It’s a Schwinn. Dean would know if it’s a good model, but there’s no doubt about Milo’s which is shiny and silver like the first wish on somebody’s Christmas list. Sam tried to ride a squeaky, rusty bicycle in Bobby’s junkyard when he was seven, but they weren’t there long enough for him to master it.  
These guys don’t have to know his personal history.

He throws a final glance over his shoulder. On the other side of the building, Dean is wondering what the hell is taking so long. It’s a Friday. Hopefully, he won’t be home when Sam returns. Dean will likely go out with some bimbo, drink until he passes out somewhere else. Sam used to worry when he did that, even get a little jealous. It would be the best possible scenario today.

***

After twenty minutes, the buses, the parking lot and the long line of waiting drivers clear. There’s hardly a kid in sight. Certainly, no Sam.

The last thing Dean wants to do is enter the maze of teachers and principal, janitors and lunch ladies. He’s avoided the whole school thing since his last day, three years ago. Hasn’t stepped inside one since. Nah, he’s not doing it. Sam has those sensitive bowels. Maybe he’s stuck in the bathroom.

Dean folds his arms, leans on the hood of his truck and waits another ten minutes.

“Fuck.”

He follows the yelling and commotion behind the school. Sports practice. Not football or soccer. Something with sticks. Dean would have killed at sports, but that wasn’t in the Winchester cards.

As soon as he sees the girl in the bleachers, he turns and strolls back the way he came. Better to wait at the truck anyway, so Sam knows where to find him.

***

Milo rides ahead, then swings back and circles Sam and Kai like a shark on wheels.

“Having a nice conversation?”

Kai gives him the finger and Milo laughs, riding away again. Maybe they haven’t heard the rumor. At least they haven’t brought it up.

They arrive at a large, beautiful home with grey siding and blue shutters and a bright red door. Sam didn’t have any expectations, but this exceeds his comfort level. He’s never been in a house like this. Whenever he passes houses like this, he wonders about the lives taking place within its walls. Do the people inside them always wear suits and fancy jewlery?

“Dude,” Milo shouts as he leans his bike against the garage door. “You played the new Final Fantasy yet?”

Sounds like video game talk. Sam has never played a video game. Ironically, he lives one with his dad and brother. If these guys had any idea.

The smell of fresh baking stops Sam in the foyer. Usually, he doesn’t care for sweets, but this aroma. has an increasingly narcotic effect as he follows Milo into the kitchen. A beautiful woman in a soft-looking pink sweatsuit turns from the sink and smiles, offering Milo a bowl of cookies. For Kai, she has a friendly hello, and a warm, damp hand for Sam.

“Kate Ferguson.” Milo’s mother.

“Um…”

Suddenly, Sam wants to cry. Not like he hasn’t seen and met other peoples’ mothers. But this one is so perfect. He chokes out his name.

“Well, Sam. Welcome.”

He shuffles behind Kai who traipses behind Milo, through the immaculate living room between antique sofas and past a white fireplace lined with family photos. The other boys don’t take off their shoes before tromping up the cream-carpeted steps. Sam winces at the sacrilege.

“Hey, Kai.”

A stunning girl in jean shorts disappears behind a bedroom door painted lilac. Both Sam and Kai pause to watch the door close. She looked like a young Janet Jackson.

Milo has already reached the top of the steps shaking his head and wincing. “Stop staring at my sister, you fuckers.”

***

“Hey! Hey, Dean.”

He keeps walking. She grabs his sleeve. He sighs, stops and doesn’t bother faking a smile.  
She’s taken her hair down. Sally. Vaguely pretty. The girl Sam wants. He looks past her face at the field.

“How have you been?”

“You seen Sam?”

“Um. I think he went off with some nerds.”

Nerds? What does she think she is? This whole place is a nerd school. That’s why they’re hunkered down in Roanoke: so Sam can go to nerd school.  
Why would Sam leave when he knew Dean was waiting? No way. He’s a little shit, but he wouldn’t do that.

“I need to find my brother.”

He’s halfway to his truck when she scrambles beside him and takes his hand. “Let me help you.”

It would be much more fun to tell her to get lost, but she does know her way around the school. Sam better be puking his brains out, or else Dean is going to kick his ass.

***

The TV in Milo’s bedroom is bigger than the one in Sam’s living room. His bed is a King, covered with a Redskins comforter. He’s got sports posters and bikini chicks on the wall.

Kai collapses onto a bean bags with a mouthful of cookie. Sam isn’t ready to sit or eat. He places his backpack on the floor and stands by it. The verdict is in. The next best thing to being Milo Ferguson is being his friend.

While Kai fires up a game, Milo spreads six history books on his bed, kicks off his shoes and stands with a cookie, watching his guests.

“So, are we…” Sam picks up the title Charlemagne: A Biography,.

Does he really want to be the killjoy guy who brings up school at a party? Sam’s never been to a party, but he knows this isn’t one. It’s just the coolest thing he’s ever been part of. A bunch of guys, kicking back, homemade cookies, video games. It’s so normal, it hurts.

“Why don’t you read these,” Milo says. “And tell me what you find out?”

“Well…I mean, it’s just a basic report, right? Charlemagne. Charles the Great. Ruled over pretty much all of Western Europe from the middle eighth century to beginning of the ninth. Father of the Holy Roman Empire and the Carolingian Renaissance…”

Milo stares blankly. “And you just know that?”

Sam shrugs. Charlemagne was also responsible for the execution of a few thousand witches, a few of whom left behind useful tomes that the Winchesters use for spellwork. He doesn’t mention that part.

“Dude, I told you. He’s smart as hell,” Kai says over his shoulder. “Ought to be in MindGames.”

Sounds like another video game.

A grin spreads over Milo’s face as he crunches the next cookie. Sam still hasn’t had one. He ought to ask, but he’s just now starting to feel like he deserves to be under this roof.

“Well, let’s see about that. Sam. Who painted the Mona Lisa?”

Is that a real question?

“Leonardo DaVinci.” Duh.

“How far is the earth from the sun?”

Sam answers without hesitation. These aren’t exactly challenging. Still. Kai pauses the screen to watch the Milo and Sam game show. Milo tosses him a cookie and asks the next question:

“What adjective best describes the taste of dick?”

Kai spits out a spray of crumbs and covers his mouth. Sam’s blood runs frigid, freezing him solid. Milo struggles to keep as straight face as he continues, “What would you say, salty or tangy? I mean, technically, it’s a grammar question. In MindGames, you got to be prepared for anything.”

The door is right behind him. Sam could turn, walk out, do the paper himself (which is how it’s looking anyway).

“Clock’s ticking, buddy.”

“Bullshit,” Sam mumbles.

“What was that? So is that the adjective? Dick tastes like bullshit? Hm.” Milo nods. “That’s not what I would have guessed, but you’re the expert.”

“It never happened.”

“You know there are eyewitnesses, right?”

Kai is engaged like they’re the best thing on TV.

“It’s okay, dude,” Milo says softly. “Nobody here has a problem with it, as long as you do your part.”

He palms his crotch and Sam swallows a thick, dry lump.

“Get over here, Kai.”

Kai looks between them but slowly obeys his friend. He stands at Milo’s side awaiting orders.

Milo says, “Drop trou, bro.”

“What?”

“Sam’s going to do you first.”

Sam’s not doing anybody. He stoops for his backpack.

“What are you doing?”

“I gotta—”

“No. Man, listen.” Milo takes a step toward him and Sam steps back.

Milo pauses and raises his hands. “It’s cool. Seriously. He’s never had his dick sucked.”

Kai will survive. Two days ago, Sam was in the same boat and it wasn’t killing him.

“Come on, Sam,” Milo speaks gently as a hostage negotiator. “You don’t have to make it a big deal. We know you’re into it. And I know I’m at least as hot as Preston Scott.”

Kai eyes the door. If Sam runs for it, maybe he’ll follow.

“I bet my dick is bigger.” Milo must love the sound of his voice. “Look, man. We’re not going to tell anyone.”

He’s massaging himself now, through the fabric, biting his plump lower lip.

“You do it first. Then Kai will do you.”

“What?” Milo obviously didn’t run that plan by Kai.

“I’ll do it, too. Okay?”

Sam has seen it done, up close and personal. It’s kind of amazing. He’s not fundamentally opposed. Milo is attractive. Strictly speaking, he is better looking than Preston Scott, who did not actually go down on him anyway. Kai’s chubby, but fairly cute, too. That’s not the point.

What is the point?  
What is even happening right now?

They’re offering him a chance to become a third Muskateer.  
Sam could visit this house every day, pretending for a few hours that Mrs. Ferguson is his mom. Finally, get his gums on some of those cookies. Make believe he belongs to this place. That alone would be worth it.

Kai and Milo probably climax really fast. Five, ten minutes of sex is a pretty small price to pay.

Sam rolls his eyes, drops his backpack and falls to his knees.

Milo chuckles. “I told you, man.”

“I’m not…”

It doesn’t matter. Gay or not isn’t the point. Sam’s going to suck a dick. Maybe two. Whatever. It isn’t going to kill him. It’s just sex.

Milo licks his lips and unbuckles his belt.

There’s nothing wrong with sex. The only bad thing about doing stuff with Dean is that it’s Dean. This way, Sam can get some practice, in case he ever hooks up with a guy who is not his brother.

Milo’s cock is pretty unimpressive. Smells, not exactly bad, but not like anything he wants in his mouth. On the bright side, next time someone asks, he’ll have an adjective. Probably tastes like it smells- musty.

Is this seriously happening? How, all of a sudden, has Sam gone from complete virgin to kneeling in some guy’s bedroom?

If it’s not wrong, why is his tongue coated, stomach churning? Why is he bordering on nausea? Maybe this isn’t the best idea. How did he ever think it was?

There’s no cookie on earth  
What about the sister?  
And the sofas  
Don’t you want to sit on those sofas? Just to know how it feels.

***

“Hi, Ms. Jeffries," Sally says leaning into a classroom. "We’re looking for Sam Winchester.”

The woman behind the desk isn’t much older than Dean. And she’s trying to hide the hot behind thick hippy glasses. She stands, smiles and crosses the room with her hand extended. Dean fights the urge to knock it out of the air. He smiles and shakes, because that’s going to get him to Sam.

“Are you Sam’s—”

“Brother,” Sally answers.

Nobody asked this bitch to speak for him. Dean’s patience is dwindling. “Have you seen him?”

“He may have gone home with Preston Scott.”

Sally giggles and Dean has an overwhelming urge to smack her. Can’t do it here in front of the teacher, so he sniffs loudly and turns to leave the room. No reason to thank her when she hasn’t actually been helpful.

Sam’s not in any of the boys’ rooms. Not in the locker room.  
And the goose chase has landed them back where they started, with the players shouting on the field. Fuck Sam. He knew what he was doing. Didn’t even have the decency to say he was going home with Preston Scott, whoever the fuck that is. As a matter of fact, fuck all these bitches.

“What the hell sport is that?” Dean asks.

“Lacrosse.”

Sissies with sticks.

“That’s your boyfriend right? Number 14.”

The guy is tall, well-built, no chore to look at.

Sally doesn’t even turn to look. “Yeah, but he’s not--”

“You’re just a little slut, aren’t you?”

She shivers and stares, the smile blossoming slowly beneath wide eyes. Dean backs her against the nearest brick wall. An alcove around a back entrance to the school

Sally’s hands rise to his chest. “Not right here.”

They might be visible from the field, but who gives a fuck? This girl chased him. Dean closes a hand around her throat. It would be so easy to crush her windpipe. Let Lacrosse-boy find the mess.

A hunter differs from a monster in only one respect - choice of prey.

Dean squeezes her throat because she likes it. Probably creamed her panties when he shoved her into this wall. Gasping and craning her greedy hips toward his. Why can’t Sam be this eager?

Because Sam is a good boy. Somewhere doing his homework. Dean doesn’t deserve him. That’s why he has to settle for this trash. He opens his belt with his free hand.

“You gonna be good?”

Sally nods and slips to her knees to prove herself a liar.

Both of Dean’s fists twist in her hair as he slides into her mouth. Little bitch beneath him, where she belongs. Choking on it. Clawing his thighs. Digging into the flesh. Urging away with a frantic whimper. He could snuff her like this. Keep buried in her throat a little too long. And then a little longer.

Dean lets her go, nose curling as she coughs vomit onto the concrete and apologizes.

“Don’t be sorry. Get back on it.”

She dries her eyes and takes it again. Begs off, and takes it again.

He fucks a bit harder each time, daring her to call it off. When she says the word, he’ll play a little more and then blow all over her face. There are variations on a happy ending.  
She doesn’t say it, though. Not ‘stop’ or ‘no’ or ‘please’ or any of the cute ways they beg. When they do, mostly, Dean stops. Eventually.

To be fair, if they’re fucking, doesn’t that mean they want it? You don’t start making out with a guy and then change your mind? What you do is you become a tease.

Like Sam last night.

‘Because we’re not date rape guys, right?’ Marco from the bar is now Jiminy freaking Cricket.

If Sally, the slut says to stop, Dean will stop. But she doesn’t. So, he shoots down her throat and she swallows. Twenty yards away, her boyfriend is chasing a ball with a net.

Sam won’t care. He’s not even here. He chose to run off with his nerd friends to do homework.

***

Kai slips down his zipper but covers himself with his hand.

Ten minutes, tops. Then, it’s over and Sam is in.

It’s no big deal. They’re kids letting off steam. It doesn’t mean anything. Just like with Dean. They’re brothers, for Christ’s sakes. How could it mean anything with him? Sam needs to do this to prove to himself that sex is no big deal. The stuff that happened between him and Dean is just … nothing. This is the normal way kids kick back. Cookies, video games, and communal blow jobs.

What if the guys don’t reciprocate? Sam could make them, but that’s not his style. What if they try to reciprocate and he can’t get it up?

He takes a deep breath and someone knocks on Milo’s door.

On his way downstairs, Sam keeps his eyes low.

Would he have done it? What the hell is wrong with him?  
Dean.  
This is a level of crazy with no other plausible explanation.

“Sam, wait.” Mrs. Ferguson catches him in the foyer. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Sam needs to get home, mom.”

Milo doesn’t know the first thing about what Sam needs. Or his home. This house smells like heaven. At Sam’s home, it’s canned pasta or Rice-or-Roni.  
And Dean trying to fuck him into submission. Why is everyone trying to fuck him now? Or fight him? Except for Preston. That kid’s okay, and Sam totally dissed him this afternoon. He doesn’t even recognize himself.

At least at dinner, Milo won’t try anything. That’ll give Sam some time to think.

“Actually, ma’am. I’d like to stay, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Tina, set for six!”

The only real cooked meal Sam has had in months were the Dean-scrambled eggs this morning. He can’t remember the last time a real person whose name he knew cooked dinner. Not to disrespect Dean’s efforts, but there’s something different about braised salmon, fresh greens and scalloped potatoes.

Sam won’t be able to explain if the tears welling behind his eyes suddenly break free. They come closer to escaping down his cheeks when Mr. Ferguson asks each young person at the table the best part of their days. Milo rolls his eyes and says, “Whatever, man.”

Kai mumbles about a good test grade. When Milo’s sister speaks, Sam can’t stop looking at her mouth, her hair, her eyes. Everything. She grins at him and then reminds her mother that she needs the car keys after dinner.

“How about you, Sam?”

“Um…” Sam clears his throat.

The best part of his day? That moment when the Fates stopped him from sucking off a jerk.  
Mr. Ferguson folds his reading glasses and stuffs them into his shirt pocket. The whole family is like Leave It to Beaver, in technicolor.

Except for Milo who sulks and sighs at everything his parents say. He doesn’t appreciate what he has. Kai tries to be respectful but speaks softly and avoids eye contact, like he’s being interrogated.

“Sam, where did you go to school before North Cross?”

“Key High School in Nevada, ma’am.” Sam was only there for two months, but it is the truth.

He puts down his fork to give his full attention, because he knows exactly where this line of questioning inevitably leads.

“And what do your parents do for a living?”

“Well, my mother passed away when I was a baby.”

He waits for the sad sighs. Tina’s head tilts so prettily, Sam’s almost glad his mother is dead. Then he feels like a shit for thinking that. He never knew his mother. Never got a chance to miss her. Until he meets someone like Mrs. Ferguson and realizes how good his life could have been.

“My father is a professional bounty hunter. That means we move around a lot.”

“Now, that is a very interesting line of work,” Mr. Ferguson nods admiringly because he has no idea what he’s talking about. “And do you aspire to the same field?”

The question stuns, as if no one had ever asked it. Sam has written career essays all his life, like every other kid in the public school system. Fire fighters, Police, Doctors, Lawyers. He has a vague understanding of what they do, and no belief that he could follow any other path than his father’s.

“I can see you’ve got some thinking to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, if you ever have any questions about the law. Or entrepreneurship,” he points to his wife. “Be sure and ask us.”

Sam absolutely wants to ask them, but Milo is glaring like he’s made out of snot.

Milo is an ungrateful dick who treats his awesome parents like crap. At this moment, Sam decides he will never have sex with someone he doesn’t like. Including Dean.

Dean is his brother but Sam doesn’t like him. He’s not a nice person. To be that close and intimate with someone, you should at least think they’re a decent human being.

After dinner, Tina Ferguson is awarded access to the car keys in exchange for driving Sam home. The car is fresh with artificial pine scent and Sam is scouring his brain for a good conversation starter. Tina is about Dean’s age, glamorous and almost certainly not interested in anything Sam knows.

Luckily for him, she turns on her music, sings and bobs her head, utterly oblivious to the geek in her passenger seat. Sam watches out of the corner of his eye, praying to God he doesn’t spring a boner. Also, that Dean’s not outside working on his truck, because as soon as he sees this girl, he’ll be all over her worse than Sally.

Dean probably can’t even help the way he is. Homo erectus hormones or something. Sam rests his elbow on the door handle, his chin in his palm and ignores Tina. He’s not some kind of animal. He can control his mind and his body. Unlike some people.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam pauses outside the apartment door and groans. He needs a lecture from Dean like he needs another hole in his rear.  
Never would have knelt for those guys if Dean hadn’t been in his head. What would his brother say if he knew?

Doesn’t matter. Sam’s not speaking to him, maybe ever again. It was immature not to come home after school, but if Dean says a word, he’s leaving. If necessary, Sam will sleep in the stairwell.

But the apartment is dark as an empty tomb. Dean’s probably out with some bimbo.

It's not a problem when he doesn’t show up Saturday, either. Sam can fend for himself, despite the foodless fridge. He’s not going to waste energy worrying, as long as Dean isn’t hunting by himself. He knows better than that, right? A quick call confirms that Bobby didn’t put Dean on a case. The price is a half-hour interrogation about school. Sam answers and then goes back to reading. It's actually peaceful having the place to himself.

Dean stumbles in before dawn on Sunday, crashes onto his bed, fully dressed. Stinking like a distillery.

Sam twists and sulks for an hour before he gets up. Running helps clear his head of the anger at Dean for disappearing like their dad, even if it was just for a day. Then again, it was fair payback: Sam vanished after school. Dean didn’t come home for 24 hours. Are they even yet, or is Dean still going to want to fight?

***

Sam is sweaty and winded when he drags into the apartment. He hadn’t expected his brother to wake before noon, but Dean is on the couch.

If neither speaks, maybe there can be peace.

“I was worried.”

Wait. Where's the subjugation? The attempted domination? Sam can roll his eyes, be a bitch and ignore that. This calm is disarming. Sam's always braced for Dean’s bad attitude, but not this civility. He turns and faces his accuser.

“I mean ... I didn’t know where you were.” 

Dean is so out of character that Sam can only apologize. His brother drops his face into his palms, takes a few deep breaths before he sits up and asks, “Can I take you somewhere, Sammy?”

“What?”

The only possibilities are training, sparring, or hunting.

“I want to take you out.”’

“No.”

This Stepford Dean is easier, but kind of freaky.

A shower, jeans and secondhand t-shirt later, Dean enters the bedroom with his hand behind his back.Sam tenses for awful as his brother offers a white, plastic grocery bag wrapped around something big and round. A skull? Not adult, or not human. Something for a spell? Why is this his life?

“Take it.”

“No.”

Dean tosses and Sam’s reflexes make him catch.

“Just open it.”

Wincing, he unpacks a head of cauliflower.

“What is this?”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I know. I just…”

“It’s one of those white broccolis.”

“It’s a cauliflower,” Sam says, unsure whether Dean is kidding.

“Yeah. I thought you... We had that at a salad bar once when you were pretty little, and you went apeshit for it. You remember that?”

Sam shakes his head, staring at his gift.

“I saw it and I thought... you know, when’s the last time Sam had some like vegetables so... I’m pretty sure that’s a vegetable.”

Sam still isn’t sure it’s not laced with strychnine, but Dean looks so sincere and out of his depths that he launches to his feet and hugs his brother with his free hand. He tosses his cauliflower onto the bed and hugs him with both.

“Thanks.”

Dean chuckles awkwardly and slowly hugs him back, arms tight around Sam’s waist. “You like it that much?”

“Haven’t had it in a long time, but… The gesture is... Thanks.”

“Now, would you go out with me, please?”

“What?”

“I mean, just to a movie or something.”

Dean is so contrite and uncertain, he doesn’t seem like the same person. It’s like he’s sick. Or enchanted.

“Okay?” Sam says, watching closely. “Do I... Should I... Am I okay like this or…”

“You’re perfect.”

Sam’s face flushes. He studies his bare feet to avoid Dean’s eyes.

Don’t get excited. This is either a ruse or Dean hit his head. It won’t last. It isn’t real.

He changes into a better shirt and khaki slacks anyway. He grimaces at his reflection, wishing he had enough hair to cover his protruding ears. There’s no way in hell Dean finds him attractive. Should probably put back on the T-shirt and jeans. Something less conspicuous. It’s not a date. It’s a movie with his brother.

Sam returns to the room unbuttoning the shirt. Dean’s eyes go wide.

“Wow. You look... shit. I need to step it up.”

“No, I’m…”

“Don’t change,” Dean says. “Just give me a second.”

He yanks off his T-shirt. Sam turns his back, disallowing himself a full greedy view. Still, his heart beats the blood to his crotch.

When the temptation grows unbearable, Sam sneaks a look over his shoulder. Dean peers down at the hand massaging his chest and licks his lips. Unfair beauty.

Sam holds the reaction beneath his boiling skin. Pretends there’s not a vicious rush of heat melting his insides. Dean crosses the room and slings a hand around his neck.

Any other time, Sam would struggle to avoid having his face dragged into his brother’s sweaty pit. Right now, he focuses on breathing.

“Sorry.”

Dean releases him and Sam catches his hand between their bodies. For a moment, they become a statue of a first encounter.

It’s been so long since his brother was kind, this feels like the first time. If Sam were braver and it didn’t always hurt, he might try a kiss. Instead, he asks what time the movie starts.

Dean chuckles and steps back, as if released from a spell. He pulls a dress shirt from the closet, opens his fly to tuck it in. Holds his hands wide.

“This all right?” he asks, as if anyone could ever find fault in the way he looks.

***

Before they head out of the door, Dean folds a stick of gum between his teeth. He offers one to Sam who stuffs it into his pocket. He’s already chewing a floret of his cauliflower.

“You’re not going to cook that?”

“Doesn’t need it.” Sam offers a piece.

Dean grimaces and turns away like it’s hemlock.

“Dude. It’s good for you.”

Dean shakes his head, frowning and filling Sam with an overwhelming urge to make him try it. He comes within five inches of his brother’s mouth before Dean darts around the sofa. Laughing, Sam gives chase into the kitchen, cornering his ridiculous victim by the fridge.

They’re both winded, smiling. Sam’s heart pounding as he creeps forward. Dean raises a warning finger. “If you touch me with that…”

“Just try it.”

“I’ve got gum.”

“Spit it out.”

Sam presses the harmless, delicious cauliflower to Dean’s unwilling lips, mushes it side to side, chuckling until Dean catches his wrist. He spits the gum into his free hand and chomps down on Sam’s gift.

“Happy?” He asks around the cauliflower.

Sam smiles, watching his brother chew. In the course of one minute, Dean’s face expresses bemusement, consideration, disgust and relief as he swallows. It’s obviously a performance for Sam’s benefit.

“Was it that bad?”

Dean pops back in his gum. “Yeah.”

***

In the truck, he slides a tape into the deck and starts crooning along.

_Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light_

_To chase a feather in the wind_

_Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight_

_There moves a thread that has no end_

He doesn’t have the best voice in the world, but he’s dedicated. And loud. And peeks over from time to time to be sure Sam is watching him sing his fool heart out.

_For many hours and days that pass ever soon_

_The tides have caused the flame to dim_

_At last the arm is straight, the hand to the loom_

_Is this to end or just begin?_

Oh. Sam is watching. There’s no way not to watch when the whole show is for you.

_All of my love. _

_All of my love, all of my love_

_All of my love to you_

There's no way not to catch fire when Dean is stealing glances through the dark, grinning like Sam’s the only person on earth. No wonder he has all those girls.

Sam won’t be another idiot wondering why Dean won’t call. He’ll be the idiot laying in the next bed, wondering why he was dumb enough to fall for it. Sam is staring straight down and can’t stop his feet from shuffling forward into the abyss. Falling for Dean doesn’t end well for anyone else. Why should he be different?

***

The movie options are:

1\. Titanic, which Sam would never admit he wants to see.

2\. Jack Nicholson and a dog on the poster.

3\. An action flick with Travolta and Cage

4\. Something with Robin Williams and Matt Damon.

None of it looks all that memorable, but Sam is no judge of movies. He leaves the choice up to Dean, who punts it right back.

“Nicholson?” Sam shrugs, hoping to pick something his brother won’t hate.

Dean, who was crazy about the Shining, nods and buys two for As Good As It Gets. He hands Sam his ticket and asks if he wants popcorn.

“Sure.”

“Sprite?”

Sam nods. He stands by the arcade games watching Dean in the concession line. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on. He hasn’t been to the movies with his brother, or anyone, in longer than he can remember. John Winchester would call this a shameful waste of time and money. They could be researching. Finding hunts. Working out.

Dean returns with their goodies and leads the way to the middle rear seats. While the previews play, Sam yawns around a handful of buttered-drenched popcorn.

“Bored already?” Dean asks.

"Tired."

Dean nods. Sam turns away and stifles the next yawn. Doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. He could rest his head on Dean’s shoulder, but why expose himself to the potential ridicule?

“Do you want to leave?” Dean asks.

The movie hasn’t even started.

“No. I…” Sam hangs his head back but it’s impossible to rest like that.

He yawns again and Dean wraps his hand around Sam’s ear dragging his head onto his shoulder. Instinctively, Sam pulls away. He takes a breath and slowly, lays it back.

“Thanks.”

Dean curls a warm hand around Sam’s knee. “That okay?”

Sam nods, as far from sleep as he’s ever been. He’s trying not to squirm in his seat. Eyes glued to the screen.

That hand, and Dean’s aftershave.

If his brother tried … anything, right now, in this movie theater, Sam would take the pain and beg for more.

***

Sam wakes to a dark screen. The movie is over. The credits are over. Dean is sitting there, being a perfect pillow, except now Sam has a crook in the left side of his neck.

“You’re really tired, huh?”

“Guess so.” Sam wipes the spittle from the corners of his mouth and drinks some watered-down soda to alleviate the dryness.

“So, you want to head straight back or…”

Sam wants to ask why Dean is being so nice, but he also doesn’t want to break it.

“I feel a little better now.” Sam stretches his arms in front of him. “How was the movie?”

“Kind of sucked. You would’ve liked it.”

Sam laughs. “Why don’t you tell me what I missed?”

“Well, there was a lot of snoring,” Dean says. “I’m kidding. It was actually okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, so this freak falls in love with this waitress…”

“What do you mean by freak?”

“Oh, you know. Just this weirdo. Then, there’s this fag.”

Not Sam’s favorite word. Dean must have seen him tense.

“Um. A homo? Queer? What am I allowed to say?”

“Does it matter that he’s gay?”

“It kind of does to the story,” Dean says. “The freak has to watch his dog.”

“I mean, aren’t we kind of gay?”

Dean blinks and slowly smirks. “Nah. We’re just weird.”

It’s a perfectly accurate response. Sam can’t help but laugh which leads to another small yawn.

“Why’re you so sleepy?”

No way Sam will admit that he stayed up the last two nights waiting for his brother to come home. “Oh, just school, I guess.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says.

Sam’s not sure what to do with this attention.The theater has cleared. An attendant enters to clean up.

“I just... There are a lot of stupid people.”

Dean’s wince is almost imperceptible.

Sam clarifies, “At school.”

“At your nerd school?”

“Yes. A lot of stupid nerds. Like booksmart, but... that’s all.”

“Anybody giving you a hard time?”

“You asked me that two days ago.”

“And I’m asking you today.”

“No.”

Dean, the bully slayer was Sam’s favorite hero of all time. He was only slightly easier on mean kids than he is on monsters. There was this kid in Reno who smeared gum in Sam’s crewcut so he had to have his head shaved to the scalp. Dean took the kid behind the school and held the electric shaver to his throat.

Later, Dean disclosed to Sam that it probably wouldn’t have done any damage. Barely break the skin. Probably.

“No,” Sam repeats. “Just got this project with this guy.”

Why go there? Of all the people he could have mentioned, why Milo? God.

“What kind of project?”

Sam squints. Why is Dean asking? What the hell is going on? This whole situation is prickling his skin. Alone in a movie theater with Dean pretending to be interested in his education.

“What?” Dean asks, reading Sam’s thoughts. “I’m curious.”

“About my project?”

“About you. Why do you like school so much? Is it cause you’re good at it? Positive reinforcement and all that? Or is it just because you hate us?”

“I don’t hate anyone.”

“Okay. Hunting.” Dean raises a brow. “You’re going to tell me you love hunting?”

Sam looks at the blank screen. He’s starting to get teary. The last time he had a real conversation with his brother, he was eleven. Hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it. Where the hell has he been? Dean’s body has been here, but this guy, this good, kind, chill Dean has been buried under petrified layers of asshole.

Soak it up. It won’t last.

“I don’t love hunting,” Sam says. “I know it has to be done.”

“You’re good at it.”

Sam’s no good with compliments.“Not like you.”

“Better than I was at your age.”

“Did you always hate school?”

Dean faces forward in his chair. “School hated me. All the sitting still, and the rules, and…”

“I thought you’d like that. Knowing exactly where the line is. What’s expected.”

“But for what? What’s the point? Hunting, you know why you’re doing it. Saving lives. Making the world safer. What’s the point of Venn diagrams, and book reports, and... I mean, I know you dig it. I’m not trying to... Just wasn’t for me.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Let’s agree to disagree.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. Then, he smiles and breaks into wide open laughter so rare that Sam leans over and kisses his cheek. A peck, like a little kid. He sits back, humiliated by his own idiocy.

Dean blinks. “All right.”

Sam starts to stand. Dean catches his arm, pulls him down. When their lips brush together, it’s sweet and nice. Dean’s hands on Sam’s cheeks. No teeth. No tongues, even. Just amazing.

“That okay?”

“Yeah.” Better than the movies.

Dean tugs Sam’s earlobe. “God, your smile.”

Sam lowers his eyes, tries to hide. Dean won’t let it happen. He’s still holding Sam’s face, studying him in the dim. Eyes bright and deep with mystery.

All at once, Dean lets him go, clears his throat and straightens in his seat.

The theater is filling with people again.

***

In the truck, Dean cranks up the heat on their feet. He winds down his window to let in the cold air. It’s like a tiny stormfront swirling between them.

Dean shifts into fifth and his hand lingers on the gear shift for a moment before he turns up his palm.

It can’t be real. Sam hesitates too long and Dean clutches the wheel, looks out of his window.

Sam snatches that hand and clutches it in both of his, twining their fingers. How long until this explodes in his face?

“This is kind of weird, isn’t it?”

“Little bit,” Dean mumbles and kisses Sam’s knuckles. “You okay with that?”

“Everything we do is weird. I guess it’d be stranger if we didn’t.”

Dean chuckles. “That’s an interesting argument, Mr. Winchester.”

“Why do you want me?”

“What?”

“I mean…” Sam flushes. “You want me, right?”

“Obviously, Sam.”

“So, why?”

“Why?” Dean shakes his head like he’s going to withdraw into his shell again.

Or tell Sam he’s being dumb or too young and forget the whole thing. Sam should learn to shut up. Should have left it alone. Dean takes his hand away and Sam’s whole heart chases after it. He keeps his hands folded in his lap.

“Because you’re beautiful,” Dean says. “And good.”

He shrugs and keeps driving with both hands. If they were at a stoplight, Sam might crawl into his lap, kiss both of their mouths numb. But they’re on the highway, so he contents himself with staring like he’s never seen his brother at all.

Dean looks at the road. He swipes his hand across his cheek, wiping at a tear. Sam pretends not to see. There’s no question which of them is beautiful. Is that why Sam wants Dean? Is that a good reason? Then again, this isn't good or bad. It's just Winchesters being weird. 


	11. Chapter 11

The Winchester boys stand toe to toe between their beds. Sam’s shoulders heave. He can’t break his brother’s eye contact as Dean strips down to his boxers, then reaches over to free the top button on Sam’s shirt.

“You need help with that?”

“No,” Sam answers too fast, stepping back and bumping the backs of his knees against the bed. “I mean, I got it.”

Dean nods and leaves the room. He doesn’t seem angry. He doesn’t slam the door or anything.  
The water’s running in the bathroom. Is he brushing his teeth?

Sam runs his hands over his head. Why did he flinch like that? He wants it. So bad. Whatever Dean wants, Sam wants. He just needs to take deep breaths and stay calm.

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he removes shirt, pants and socks, folds them neatly onto the dresser and crawls into bed. His own bed. Maybe he should get into Dean’s. That would send a pretty strong message. Maybe he should take off his underwear, too. Lay on his belly and hold his cheeks open.

Sam doesn’t move, but he’s busily considering all the possible ways he could present himself when Dean returns to the room.

“You need the light?”

Sam shakes his head, holding the cover to his chin like a six-year-old. Didn’t Dean used to sleep with him back then. During storms. Or after one of their dad’s tirades about all the evil in the world. Dean’s ten-year-old arms around him, humming a song their mom used to sing - is that a memory or an invention?

Dean’s bed creaks when he sits.

“Would you, um…” Sam’s voice is not being reliable. It’s all breath and squeak. “Dean.”

“Yeah?”

Sam holds out a hand and prays his brother can see in the dark.

“You sure?”

“Yes, please.”

Dean hesitates a moment. Maybe he won’t come at all. Maybe Sam has spurned him enough and he’s tired of trying. His own damn fault. Sam rolls over to face the wall and berate himself. Dean’s feet padding against the floor would be inaudible if there were a single other sound in the world.

He pulls back the sheet and slides inside, covering them both to their ears and placing his hands on Sam’s back. Sam hisses at the cold and the hands retreat.

Dean whispers, “Sorry.”

Sam pulls the freezing fingers around his waist. They’ll warm up quicker sandwiched between his belly and his hand. Dean’s breath is loud and warm on the back of Sam’s neck, each exhalation blowing more blood southward.

Dean’s kiss on the back of his neck is a revelation of tenderness. Sam sighs and resists the urge to touch himself.

“You want to hear a joke?”

Only Dean would think this is a good time for a joke.

“What’s red and bad for your teeth?”

“I don’t know.”

“A brick.”

“Oh my God.” Sam giggles, not because it’s funny, but because it’s really not.

But his brother is on a roll. “Why do you never see elephants hiding in trees?”

“I have no idea.”

“Because they’re really good at it.”

Is sleepiness making Sam hysterical?

“Okay. One more,” Dean says, tittering a bit himself. “A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, ‘why the long face?’ The horse replies, ‘My alcoholism is destroying my family.’”

They’re both silent for a moment. Sam breaks first. Hard. Laughter so violently the bed shakes. Dean squeezes like he might shatter, but he’s cracking up, too.

“Where’d you get those?”

“You used to have this book,” Dean says and kisses Sam’s ear.

That shifts the merriments and sends a shudder down his skin.

“The elephant one was your favorite.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A million years, man.” Dean massages Sam’s belly, easing closer, gently tilting his hips to press his arousal against Sam’s behind. “You were such a goof ball, with your jokes and your cards.”

“What cards?”

“You don’t remember that? Seriously? You used to make these lists and then make Dad buy you index cards so you could commit your lists to cards and memorize them.”

“What kind of—”

“Everything,” Dean says. “Dinosaurs. Presidents. Planetary moons. You were a complete freak.”

Sam laughs. “Huh.”

“I used to know everything about you,” Dean says, suddenly serious. “I don’t even know your favorite color now. That’s what happens when you grow up, huh?”

“Green.”

“Yeah?”

Sam nods. “Yours?”

“I don’t know. Red, I guess.”

“Like blood?”

“Like the cherries in a pie.”

“I should have known that.” Sam chuckles.

“What’s your favorite food? And don’t say cauliflower.”

“Spinach.”

“Come on, Sam.”

“I love spinach.”

“It’s not even a Popeye thing, is it?”

Sam smiles at his brother’s logic. “Popeye is cool, but no.”

“Popeye is the freaking man,” Dean says. “If I could get spinach in a can, I’d eat it.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

There’s no way Dean Winchester would eat canned spinach.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. “You.”

“I’m funny?” Dean’s fist on his throat is no threat, but it alters the conversation.

Sam moans and urges back against the rod at the crest of his ass.

“What’s your favorite animal, Sammy?”

“Dean.”

“I’m your favorite animal?” Dean asks with a smile on his voice.

“Please.”

Heat is seeping from Sam’s pores. He writhes to ease it, to feel more of his brother against his back.

“Hey. Calm down.”

Dean strokes his chest as Sam whimpers, hand falling to catch the first of his leak.

“Dean?”

“Favorite movie. I don’t know. That one today was pretty decent.”

Sam whines at the insufferable teasing. Of course, his brother would work him into this state and pretend he doesn’t know. If he wants begging, so be it.

“Dean, I want it. Would you, please, just … I swear I won’t run. I won’t fight, no matter what.”

“Not tonight, Sammy. Let’s just… be together, okay?”

“Why?”

“Why? Because … I don’t want to hurt you. And it’s better not to rush.”

Sam rolls his lips between his teeth, hums rather than complaining.

“Okay?”

He nods, but it’s not okay if he bursts into flames in his bed and burns them both alive. He might be able to survive if Dean doesn’t enter him, but stroking himself is not optional. Base to tip, hips following his grip. When he slides back, Dean is there, solid and perfect as stone. His guiding hand on Sam’s pelvic bone.

“Go on.”

Dean’s inviting Sam to lose control, so he can laugh. Never let Sam forget how worked up he got. How he wanted Dean so badly he couldn’t stop himself from jerking off in bed. Sam doesn’t masturbate in his bed, because laying in a cold damp spot is gross. Crusty sheets are worse. He only ever does it in the shower, in private. He’s skirting along the edge between utter degradation and a minor breakdown. His body shakes with need and indecision.

“Sammy, it’s okay. Touch yourself.”

Sam swears at the things his brother does to his ear. Wicked, wet things that make everything worse and so much better.

“Come on, buddy. Just let go.”

Dean is like a coach back there, grinding against Sam’s ass, his right hand on Sam’s wrist. He tugs the waistband elastic down out of the way, licks the back of Sam’s neck. Sucks his shoulder.

“Move. Let me.”

Dean knocks Sam’s hand away and strokes him fast and steady, all the while whispering, “That’s it, Sammy. Let go, baby.”

In an agony of mere minutes, fists, balls, toes clench tight. Sam roars, shudders and releases over his brother’s fingers. Melting to a helpless, pitiful puddle in Dean's able hand.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam doesn’t share his brother’s emotional connection to bacon, but he smiles awake when he smells it. Dean’s in a good mood. 

There was barely enough room for them to pack in bed sideways like sardines, but the spot where Dean spent the night is still warm. Sam burrows his face in the pillow and takes a deep whiff of his brother’s sweat and shampoo. He’s not washing his linens until he has to.

He opens the window, airs out the room with a draft of crisp, fall air. Showered and dressed, he follows the sizzling to the kitchen only to find his cauliflower diced and floating in enough bacon grease to drown an army. Dean turns and grins, still stirring his abomination.

Sam could complain. A strongly worded grievance forms on the back of his tongue. He could spit it out and initiate World World Three. After all, Dean has desecrated a perfectly good vegetable.

With a doleful sigh, he slumps at the table, chokes down his breakfast and follows it with, “Thank you.”

Then he washes the dishes. 

On their way out of the door, Dean shoves him against the wall. Instinctively, Sam pushes back. He knew it was coming. It’s always only a matter of time with this asshole. 

Only, Dean drops his chin and apologizes.

“No,” Sam says. “I’m sorry. I…”

He’s hard-wired to expect the worst from his brother. The moment he lets down his guard, it will backfire. That’s guaranteed. But Dean is the picture of penitence, stuttering an explanation:

“I just… I wanted... Can’t kiss you out there, can I?”

Sam’s chest floods with heat as he nods and trembles into Dean’s revised kisses: all soft and gentle, almost careful. His hands on Sam’s waist, liquifying his knees. It goes on long enough for Sam to want it the other way. 

He grips his brother’s shirt and yanks him closer, trying to awaken the aggression. One hand snakes under the hem of Sam’s shirt, but settles low on his back. Dean’s raging urgency is dormant.

“I’m not going to break,” Sam says. 

His lips are wet and buzzing as he grips Dean’s ass with both hands. He slams their hips together and his brother pulls away. Then, he boops Sam’s nose with a fingertip.

“Don’t want you to be late.”

They drive in silence, Sam watching his brother man the gear shift. Dean smirks over from time to time. They arrive at the school, all around them, school buses, students, people coming and going. All of them oblivious to the bright-hot sparks in this truck. Dean’s right. They can’t sit outside of the school in plain daylight and make out. He squeezes Sam’s hand and mutters, “Have a good day.” 

It’s weird and sweet and perfect. Sam huffs. “You, too.”

Dean doesn’t release his hand right away. He levels a gaze that is 100% promise for after school. It’s almost as hot as a full-on tongue battle would be. Sam has to stop thinking about it or he’s not going to make it through the day.

***

Dean taps his steering wheel with the biggest, cheese-eatingest grin he can ever remember wearing. 

He soars through stop signs and red lights and lets the cold wind whip his face. As he glides down Main street, he hangs his head out of the window like a long-eared dog and howls:

All of my love  
All of my love  
All of my love  
To you, child

***

Things are looking bright. Sally’s not in second period, which means one fewer person on Sam’s case. Mrs. Dupree, the Chem teacher make an announcement for all aspiring young astronomers:

No homework for anyone who watches the meteor shower. 

She promises perfect viewing conditions, but that’s only because she doesn’t know about the streetlamps on Sam’s street. None of it matters. Sam doesn’t mind homework, and he’s looking forward to natural fireworks tonight. 

Dean will fuck him. If Sam has to tie him to the bed and sit on his dick. It’s happening tonight.

He covers his smile, shocked by his own train of thought and only derailing it with chemical compounds to keep his body in check.

***

Dean waits in the alley. He even pulled over at a gas station and bought a single red rose. It’s cheesy as heck, but that doesn’t mean Dude won’t like it. Marco was the one who said all this patience and tenderness bullcrap would work on Sam. 

At first it was weird treating Sam like a girl. It’s even weirder that his little brother responds so positively to it. Dean’s not going to question it too much, though. He’s just enjoying the outcome.

***

The school day zooms past, but it’s raining by the time lunch begins. Sam has a high tolerance for cold and had planned to spend the winter lunches at his tree. But eating a sandwich in the rain is too ridiculous, and he doesn’t have a lunch table. Hasn’t staked a claim or made friends who'd save him a spot. When he comes through the line, Brock is sitting at a table, laughing with his buddies.

Sam hadn’t intended to make another appearance in Miss Jeffries’ room, but even the apparent cowardliness doesn’t bother him as much today. Mostly, he’s spent the day compiling a very visual list of things he wants Dean to do to him. The most adventurous ideas involve maple syrup. 

Today, Preston is at the blackboard drawing flying pigs. He glances over his shoulder at Sam’s entry.

Miss Jeffries says, “I believe I met your brother.” 

Sam freezes and waits for the rest. Is she going to remark how handsome Dean is, or how rude, or how charming? It’s hard to know which version she encountered. Remarks on Dean’s face are always a safe bet, but Miss Jeffries says nothing else about him. 

Instead, she asks, “Have you thought any more about the play? We also have the one-acts coming up?”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says dropping his bag in a chair. “I really can’t.”  
  
“What about MindGames?”

Preston perks up at that mention. He sees Sam notice and goes back to his artwork. 

“Sorry, Ms. J,” Sam says. “I can’t.”

He approaches the blackboard quietly and watches Preston outline another winged swine easy as if there was magic in the chalk. 

“Hey!” Sam says. “Can you draw flat? Like on paper?”

It’s a stupid question, but Preston nods. 

“You not talking?”

He shakes head.

“Sore throat?”

Preston nods.

“Okay.”

Sam still has a stick of gum from Dean in his pocket. Preston accepts the offer and nods his thanks.

“No problem. Look, would you draw a dragon for me? Like, any kind you want, except the one from Neverending Story.” Dean was not impressed by Falkor, who he says looks like a dog. “For a friend of mine?”

Preston collects a few sheets of blank paper from Miss Jeffries’ shelf. He slides into a desk, slips the gum in his mouth and sets to work. 

Sam doesn’t encounter any new information in the book on Charlemagne, but it’s good to brush up his knowledge.

When the bell rings the end of lunch, Preston presents two pieces of paper and scrams faster than Sam can properly thank him or offer to pay. Or something.

The dragon is immaculate. Chinese-inspired. Dean is going to love it. 

Beneath it, there’s a sketch of Sam - smiling, with dimples deep enough to dive into. Only the eyes are colored with some kind of sparkly gel pen.  
  
“He’s very good, isn’t he?” Miss Jeffries is peering over Sam’s shoulder. 

He folds Preston’s portrait into a tiny rectangle and tosses it into the top of his locker. Dean’s dragon, he carefully fashions into an origami hexagon. 

All last period, Sam buzzes with anticipation. His leg taps. He’s smiling for no reason. Well, he knows the reason. Everyone else must think he’s crazy. They do not understand what’s waiting for him. Sam doesn’t even know, but he wants all of it. 

He’s drumming his desk with two pencils when the teacher breaks them into their report pairs. Milo approaches Sam’s desk and snatches one of his pencils. 

“Hey, you want to come over today? Finish this up.”

“I was thinking,” Sam says without meeting his eyes. “Since I already know about the guy, I’ll just write it, you can proofread and type it. Put it in a folder.” 

“I think you should come over.”

“Well, I don’t know… I need to clear it with my brother.” 

“Is your brother your boss?”

“When my dad goes out of town…” Sam stops himself from spilling too much information. 

Milo is not a friend.

“Yeah, my parents pull that shit. My sister is, like, a year older.” Milo sucks his teeth. “Just tell your brother it’s for school.”

Sam nods. If his brother knew he went to his knees for this guy … Technically, Sam didn’t do anything, but that information would drastically change their after-school conversation. 

“All right,” Milo says. “You know where the house is?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Don’t stand me up.” Milo offers the pencil. 

Sam reaches for it and Milo lets it drop to the floor. 

***

Marco strides down the alley, frowning like he’s sucking sour grapes. 

Dean says, “Hey.”

Marco gasps and clutches his chest. He doesn’t pull a weapon and doesn’t smile. “You fucking scared me.”

“Sorry, man.” 

“What do you want, Dean?” Marco asks as he pulls out his keys. 

The guy’s pissy mood is almost contagious, but Dean’s got hazel eyes on his mind as he presents the rose. “I just wanted to…”

Marco sneers at the flower and shakes his head. The moment he opens the door, an unholy, sulfuric stink rushes from inside the building.

“Whoa.” Dean covers his nose. “What happened?”

It reeks like the gates of Hell opened beneath the bar. Dean doesn’t even want to enter. 

“We got bombed is what happened.” Marco pulls a breathing mask over his face.

There’s no way that’s effective. It would be better to breathe through his ears, because now the funk is on Dean's fuzzy tongue. 

“We were minding our own fucking business, and some asshole throws a stink bomb through the window.”

“You guys need better protection on this place.”

Marco folds his arms and scowls. “Look, I’m happy that you got laid, Dean, but I don’t have time for this shit today. Real people have real problems.”

He’s being a bigger bitch than Sam ever was. It would be so easy to walk away.

“Let me help you,” Dean says, surprising himself. “I owe you, man. I…”

Nobody ever bothered giving him love advice before. Bobby probably would have, but Dean never had the balls to ask. 

Everything Dean knows about sex, he picked up from watching his dad. Yes, that does mean some spying went down. He’s not even ashamed of it. You got to learn somewhere. But none of his dad’s chicks ever stay around for more than a night.

Dean kind of knew the things Marco said, but it sounded like nonsense in his head. Giving Sam a present was like impersonating the phony leading man in some chick flick.   
  
But it worked. Sam was totally into that cauliflower and now, Dean is awake and alive for the first time in a long time. So, no, he doesn’t mind scrubbing the spot where the bomb fell and helping Marco set up the air purifiers. 

He’s never been afraid to dirty his hands, and it’s the least he can do.

***

It’s nearly 1 PM by the time they get finished. Marco offers to buy Dean lunch, but that would cut it close. He’s sure as shit not showing up for Sam smelling like he’s been rolling in rotten eggs. 

Dean drives home to shower, change, and possibly burn his clothes before he gets back to romancing his little brother. That girl, Sally is waiting outside of his apartment building. Some bitches don’t let up.

She smiles at first, but her nose crinkles when he gets closer.  
Good. Maybe she’ll leave him the fuck alone. 

“Hey,” she says with a finger under her nose. 

Dean moves nearer still, makes sure she can really smell it. 

“What did you… Jesus, Dean? Why do you smell like that?”

“My job. I work in the sewer.”

She winces, but doesn’t run for the hills like he’d hoped. 

“Do you think you could go take a shower, and then we—”

“No. What do you want?”

“I just… I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your company.”

“Uh-huh.”

She coughs. “And how surprised I was to see you out last night.”

Dean cocks his head, trying to get a handle on what she’s talking about.

“In the back of the movie theater.”

He stops breathe.

“With Sam.”

Dean has to hand it to her. This whore is a worthy predator. She keeps silent and still, waiting for her words to sink in.  
He could snap her neck. Should have done it before. 

“At first, I thought, no way. But when I thought about it, you two always look like you want to kill or fuck each other. And you're both boiling hot. Even moreso together,” she says, grinning like a crocodile.

“What do you want?”

Dean’s so close now that Sally’s back bows as he towers overhead.

“I want what any girl wants,” she says. “I want with Sam wants.”

This cunt has no idea how easy murder is for Dean. He’s been killing things since he was 10 years old. Earlier than that, if you count the rabbits, squirrel and deer his dad made him practice on. If Sally had any idea, the balls it takes to confront him like this would shrivel and fall off. 

The inside of Dean’s cheek is bloody from biting through it. He has to cause pain somewhere, to something, to keep himself from snapping. 

“I want you,” Sally says with a hand on his shirt. “To go upstairs, wash, and then fuck me like you did the other night.”

“I’m not messing around with you anymore.” Dean turns his back and walks away.

If Sally saw Dean with Sam, she knows he already has everything he needs.

“Look, I don’t want to say anything to anyone,” she calls after him. “Everybody already knows your brother’s a freak.”

Dean grabs and twists her arm. Sally yelps and cowers. An old biddy comes through the front door, rolling a fluffy white dog in a cart. She frowns and shakes her head and Dean scowls right back. Fuck her. What does she know?

He drags Sally into the apartment building, shoves her ahead of him so she’s first up the stairs.   
She stumbles into the apartment. Dean shuts the door and blocks it with his body. He mulls over what it would take to responsibly dispose of her body. Not enough time before school lets out.

“I don’t care how weird you are,” Sallys says. “Maybe that’s why you’re so good in bed. I don’t know. I just want you to fuck me like you can’t control yourself.”

Dean smacks her. It wasn’t planned, and he’s not proud of it. She touches her cheek and peers up at him. It’s a first for her, too. She drops her pink peacoat on the floor and yanks off her fluffy purple sweater. 

Dean grumbles. He never wanted to touch this dirty skank again. Sure, he’d hammered her face on Friday, but that felt like a thousand years ago. Back when he was pissed at Sam. Before he’d spent the night with his brother in his arms. Right now, all he wants is to see Sammy, get his hands all over him again.   
One thing Dean will not do is let this female ruin them. If anybody finds out, it’s over.

Dean never cheated, because he never had a girlfriend. Never even been with the same girl twice before Sally. He also never felt like he belonged to anyone before. But this is wrong. He unbuckles his belt, already feeling like a dirtbag who only deserve Sam’s disgust. 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah.”

If Dean hoped maybe he wouldn’t be able to get it up because this girl grosses him out, that’s not how his body works. His pants are around his knees, a couple strokes and he’s hard as an anvil. 

Sally whimpers through the whole ordeal. If she doesn’t enjoy having her face mashed into the floor while he fucks her from behind, if she doesn’t want him to yank her hair so hard, if she has a problem with the way he smells, Dean does not fucking care. 

***

Sam grins, biting his lip, all the way down the walkway to the truck. His body is tingly with anticipation. Nothing exists except him and Dean.

He opens the door, climbs in and wrinkles his nose. It smells foul in here. Only faintly, but it’s pretty bad. Did Dean just crack one off? Sam’s not going to say anything, but big brother needs to improve his eating habits if his insides smell like that. 

Sam raises his hips to access the dragon in his pocket. He holds the paper in his palm like a precious relic. It’s just a stupid drawing and Sam didn’t even do it himself, but maybe Dean will like it. Hopefully.

“What took you so fucking long?”

Sam’s blood freezes. Not because he’s surprised. But because he knew. It was a matter of time before this asshole returned. He’d hoped it would take a little longer. 

Maybe it’s not all bad. Dean always enjoyed profanity.

“How was your day?” Sam asks.

“Get the fuck out of the way, lardass,” Dean shouts out of the window at a plump kid walking in front of his truck. 

Sam stuffs the dragon back into his pocket and hides his face so his schoolmates won’t see that he’s riding with this jerk. 

As they pull away from the schoolyard, he attempts to excavate the version of Dean who laid in his bed last night, telling bad jokes and making Sam feel so good. He reaches for his brother’s hand. Dean jerks away. 

So, that’s it.

Sam huffs and wipes his mouth. “Look, I um… I have this project. Could you drop me at the guy’s house?”

“Whatever.”

Dean drives Sam to Milo’s without speaking another word. He speeds away and Sam turns to look at Milo’s front door. This was a mistake.

Dean was clearly upset about something. Sam should have shut up. Or coaxed it out of him instead of getting pissed. Anything but this. 

He’s here now and the only thing to do is insist he and Milo complete the paper in the living room. Stay out of that bedroom. If possible, get cookies.

Tina Ferguson, Milo’s exquisite older sister, answers the door wearing a ponytail and a pink hoodie. Temporarily tying Sam’s tongue.

“Milo’s not home,” she says, scanning the length of him. 

“But we—”

“He has soccer.”

“Oh.” Sam nods. “Okay.” 

He’s scratching his head, looking out at the street, trying to decide on a next move when Tina says, “Come in, Sam.”

He searches the street again. Dean is long gone. Since Tina might offer a ride home, he steps into the house. Tina closes the door.

“Listen, Sam. I wouldn’t do this for everyone, but you’re cute.”

The compliment catches him off guard, but her next statement knocks him speechless.

“Do you want to touch my boobs or anything?”

“What?”

“I mean, just to compare,” she says. “I told Milo you were totally checking me out, but he was like, no way. He’s a total queer. And I was, like, maybe not all the way. If you could touch a boob or something, you might even get cured.”

“Cured?”

“Yeah.”

Tina cups her breasts, offering herself as if her palms were full of ripe fruit. Is this girl crazy? Or is she right? Maybe Sam should touch her, for science.   
Or should he touch so that Tina won’t feel bad? It must be embarrassing standing like this: on display and waiting for a response. 

Just her fabric looks soft, whereas Dean is all rigid and unyielding. Tina looks and smells like cinnamon. She’s brain-numbingly beautiful and obviously willing, but does that mean Sam wants to go to bed with her?

“Uh…”

“Or we can try other stuff,” she says.

“Um. I should… I don’t think I should…”

Dean would call him crazy, but Sam is backing away, groping for the doorknob behind him. 

“So, you are,” Tina says. “Wow.” 

“Sorry.”

Sam turns the knob and slips out. If wanting Dean and not Tina makes him gay, now he knows. That’s a hell of a revelation to have on the mile-long walk back to the school where he’ll catch the bus home. 

His mind churns a thousand miles per minute. 

What was Dean so worked up about? Or maybe Dean had a stomachache. Gas? The fart smell in the truck was atrocious.   
Or did Sam piss him off? Did Dean just want space?   
Or did he regret the whole thing?  
Maybe a little more time apart will make everything okay. Or else their little whatever-this-was is over.   
That’s the most likely answer. It hurts to admit it, but Dean’s affairs don’t last.

Two blocks from the school, of all the kids in his school, Preston Scott is in a driveway, shooting hoops. Sam’s heart skips half a beat and his inner coward tells him to turn and run another way. He forces himself to wave. 

Preston’s house isn’t big and new like Milo’s, but it’s still more home than Sam’s ever had. There's a treehouse in the backyard. Sam always wanted a treehouse. Without a word, he drops his backpack in the grass and holds his hands open for a pass. 

They play one on one to ten points. Or Preston plays to ten points. Sam plays to two.   
He rests with his hands on his knees as Preston lays up an additional basket.

“Shit. Wow.” Sam still hasn’t caught his breath when he asks, “Why don’t you play for the school?”

Preston shakes his head. 

“Does it have something to do with Brock?”

The guy has that all-around athlete build and North Cross’ small student body means limited pickings for every extracurricular. It wouldn’t be surprising if Brock plays on every team.

“I don’t love it, so…” Preston’s throat still sounds rough. 

“You don’t have to put up with his crap.”

Preston lobs the ball hard at Sam’s chest. 

“To ten again?”

“Dude. I don’t stand a chance.”

“I’ll play with my eyes closed,” Preston rasps, grinning.

“Funny.”

“Did your friend like the drawing?”

“I didn’t get to... He will.”

“Did you like yours?”

So far as Sam knows, no one has ever had a crush on him, except Dean, if that’s what that was. The most likely explanation is that Dean got horny last night, then he got laid today, so he doesn’t need Sam anymore. 

Preston is still waiting for an answer and Sam’s new epiphany is making it difficult to breathe, let alone reply. 

“You have a... an interesting face,” Preston says. 

“So I look weird?”

Preston laughs, lowering his intense dark eyes. “No. You’re... no.”

They stand silent and still, regarding each other for a minute before Sam says, “All right. One more game. To five.”

After Preston sinks the first basket, he bounce-passes the ball and asks, “Did you ever think of running away?”

The question flies in from left field. 

“Uh…”

Think of it, sure. Constantly, before Dean kissed him. And now that Dean’s done with him, it would be a great time to flee. But where would he go? All he has is Dean, John and Bobby. If Sam goes to Sioux Falls, Bobby will report him to his dad. There’s no escape. And that’s just a fact. 

Sam misses his next shot. Preston scoops up the rebound and executes a smooth layup. 

“Just curious,” he says and passes the ball to Sam.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam smells it the moment he enters the apartment: that indiscernible stink from Dean’s truck, blended with strawberries and sex.

Sally.

Dean is seated on his usual throne. Chewing his lip, Sam settles on the sofa beside his brother and folds a leg beneath himself. He could ask about Sally, but why torture himself? He already knows. The knowledge that she was here, with Dean, perhaps all day burns like werewolf claws in his chest.

Dean went back to her because Sam wasn’t good enough. What did he expect? What could they have other than fun sometimes? Maybe if Sam is good, if he begs, Dean will do it again. Kiss him, touch him. Anything.

“I had a great time the other night,” he says. “Just wanted to tell you that.”

Dean nods. Sam swallows thick pride, lays his head on his brother's shoulder and wraps an arm around Dean's stiff chest. He didn’t even know he could still be this humble.

“Are you mad at me?” Sam whispers. “If I… If I did something wrong…”

Dean shakes his head. He sniffs loudly and Sam sits up to look at his face. His trembling lip.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Sam hops onto his knees, takes his brother’s face between his hands. “Dean?”

Dean hangs his head for a moment before exploding. “Nothing. Get off me!”

He shoves Sam and storms toward their room. This time, rather than taking offense, Sam follows him.

“Why don’t you just talk to me?”

Dean shakes his head, grinding his palm into his eye socket, apparently shoving back tears.

“Dean, please.”

Carefully, because his brother is as unpredictable as any other wild creature, Sam approaches. Dean lets a hand brush his neck before he drops his face on Sam’s shoulder. He grabs hold. Tight. As if he’d squeeze their bodies into one being.

“Fuck,” he says, growls and then steps away, clearing his throat.

“Listen, I have an idea,” Sam says. “I want to take you somewhere. It’s going to be awesome. Okay? Please.”

Even if it’s not awesome, Dean will make fun of how lame it is. He’ll get out of his own head and then, he’ll be okay. That's all that matters.

***

They drive out past Catawba, into the mountains. No streetlamps. No light pollution. Sam suggests a scenic outlook on Skyline Drive. Dean finds a maintenance road that leads to a clearing in the woods. There won’t be any traffic until morning.

In nowhere’s navel, Sam tells his brother to wait. He climbs out of the pickup’s cab and onto its bed to finish the preparations.

An hour ago, while Dean showered away the weird smell, Sam wrestled their father’s queen-sized mattress onto the back of Dean’s truck. Now, he spreads their Arctic sleeping bags side by side. He lays a blanket over them and knocks on the window.

When Dean sees the setup, he grins. “Not bad.”

They kick their boots to the tailgate and slide under the covers.

“Holy shit.” Dean has hardly settled in when he points at the inky, star-swirled sky. “You see that?”

Sam missed that one but catches another three shooting stars in succession.

“Wow,” Dean says and then shuts up for a solid half-hour.

Neither speaks. They let the sky unfold its miracle to a stirring soundtrack of chirps and hoots. Dean’s hand searches in the dark and finds Sam’s mouth causing a bright flare in his chest as the calloused thumb traces his lips. 

“Can I kiss you, Sam?”

Sam had hoped, but hadn't dared to expect. Shivering, he rolls onto his side and waits for Dean to answer his own question. It’s so dark they miss the first time, Dean’s mouth landing on his brother’s eye. They chuckle and correct the search, smiling onto each other’s lips.

The sky is falling. The world could end and all that matters is Sam and Dean urging closer, breathing each other's breath, hands on each other's faces since the sleeping bags pose layers of barrier against further touch.

By the time Dean sits up and helps himself to a beer, Sam’s mouth is swollen and raw. His pulse hammers in his chest. Hard and dampening his shorts, Sam sits up, curves a hand around his brother’s neck and pulls him into another kiss. He maneuvers into a better position to loosen Dean’s buckle and fly. Sam kisses his neck. His jaw. His lips again.

“God, you are…”

Dean laughs while Sam struggles to untangle his legs from his sleeping bag. He gasps and goes on chuckling when Sam uses both hands to pin him on his back. It was easy enough to gain the upper hand, but now what?

As if clairvoyant, Dean issues one quick movement and switches their position. His hands crawl up Sam’s shirt, blunt nails and cold, mid-November air bringing goosebumps and more violent shivers.

“You all right?” Dean asks.

“I’m fine.”

Dean’s fingertips find his nipples and pinch both at once. Sam yelps, ass clenching, cock spurting. “God.”

“Yes?”

Hilarious. And Sam would upbraid his brother's sense of humor if it weren't for his wet, warm tongue and the dizzying suction. Sam clutches the back of his head and moans. His breath is loud, and he’s going to lose his mind and come all over himself if they don’t change something quick.

With a bit of effort, he turns Dean onto his back again. Sam retraces his brother's steps: traces his fingers down Dean’s firm muscle.

Dean sighs. “That’s good.”

Sam pinches both of his nipples, licks and then sucks one, just like Dean did.

“Aw, Sammy.”

His voice is lower and even more gravelled than usual, agitating a deep need in Sam to hear more. If something is awful, Dean will tell him that, too. He’ll laugh and make him feel like an idiot, but then Sam will know.

He starts with a single peck to his brother's sternum and slowly kisses his way down to firm, lightly trembling muscle. Dean’s fingers card through his hair.

“Touch me, Sam.”

Eager to obey, Sam grips the rigid shaft through his jeans. In a matter of minutes, all of that’s going to be inside of him. Holy God.

Dean groans and rises into Sam’s palm. The soft hairs on his treasure trail tickle Sam’s lips. The salt on his skin is ambrosia. The musky scent of Dean’s sweat as Sam wrangles his pants mid-thigh, peels down his briefs, then sits back on his heels.

It’s just sex. Nothing to be scared of. No big deal.

Only it is a big deal. It’s his brother and maybe it’s not just sex. Sam might be a little in love with Dean. And that’s not good. That’s not just sex. That’s bad.

Dean is nobody’s idea of boyfriend material. He can’t be faithful. He’s rarely even nice. Also, again, and for the record: brother.

Dean strokes himself. The moonless dark made the meteor shower so amazing. But it also obscures his face. He’s losing his patience with Sam’s ineptitude. Dean spits into his hand and his sigh blends with the slip of skin on skin. Sam flushes and reaches down his own pants.

He sits on Dean’s knees, stroking himself too fast to last, watching through the dim while his brother does the same. He can barely see, but he hears Dean’s labored breathing, feels the whole truck shaking in time to his motions. Sam’s balls tighten, he holds his breath, jerking faster. Nearly there.

“Stop that,” Dean says knocking his hand away. “I want to taste you again.”

“Oh.”

“Come here.”

Dean takes Sam’s wrist and guides him to take over the two-handed job of stroking big brother’s thick cock.

“Slow down. You’re going to make me come.”

“Isn’t that the idea?”

Dean laughs. “Eventually.”

Sam slows down, sliding one hand to the base before he does the other. “Do you want to try… that thing again?”

“By that thing, you mean... Do I want to be inside of you, because…”

“Yeah. That.”

Dean’s breath does strange things: half laughter, half choking. He takes over stroking himself again, harder and faster until the air is filled with his bitter-briny scent. The truck trembles with the ferocity of Dean’s shudders as he squeezes Sam’s leg.

“Why did you do that?”

Sam knows that he’s whining, but that was so mean. He’d just explicitly said he wanted his brother inside of him and Dean came on purpose. Why would he do that?

“Sam, I don’t have any…” Dean is still chasing his breath. “I didn’t bring the... I don’t want to mess it up again. Okay? Don’t want to hurt you. ”

Sam nods, biting his lip. Big, stupid baby.

“Lay down. Please.”

They shift positions again and he eases into his back. For the first time, he really feels the cold creeping under his skin making him want to retreat under the covers. Dean pulls up his pants and tugs Sam’s off completely before kissing his mouth.

“I want to get it right, okay?”

He troubles Sam’s ears, sniffs his way down Sam’s neck. He folds Sam’s shirt out of the way, nips his hip bones and settles in with his face between his legs.

While Sam clutches the sleeping bag beneath him, struggling not to come, Dean holds his painfully rigid cock aside and nuzzles his balls. Shivers roll beneath Sam’s skin. It’s over. He can’t wait any longer.

“Dean.”

“Already?”

“I’m…”

“All right. I got you.”

Just in time, Dean takes Sam into his mouth and swallows, over and again while Sam convulses and releases down his pulsing throat.

“Oh, my god. Oh my god, Dean. Haaa. I’m ah... Ah.”

His entire body is at once drained and weightless as Dean kisses the sensitive skin inside his thighs, drawing more tremors and giggles. Big brother crawls up his body and Sam’s legs fell wide to receive his full weight.

“What’s the difference between a hooker and a drug dealer?” Dean asks, crushing the air from Sam’s lungs. “A hooker can wash her crack and resell it.”

Sam titters beneath Dean, only barely getting enough air. “Sheesh, what’s wrong with you?”

Dean kisses his cheek. “Too heavy?”

“No.” Sam shifts his hips slightly. He’d happily die this way.

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for the stars.”

“Actually, they’re meteors.”

“Nerd.” 

Sam closes his arms and legs around his brother. They lay there kissing each other breathless beneath the falling sky.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam awakens in the twilight before sunrise with frost-bitten toes, chattering teeth, a full-aching bladder and pre-dawn wood. Overnight, Dean curled up in the sleeping bag, leaving Sam’s bare ass exposed to the elements. His buns are already freezing, so he doesn’t bother with pants or underwear before hopping off the back of the truck to find the nearest tree.

Steam rises off his urine stream and groggy though he is, Sam is awake enough to smile at last night’s memories. With a shake, he returns to the truck, prepared to snuggle up and fight for his share of the covers.

Dean is up and armed.

“Get dressed,” he says under his breath and slips Sam a Glock 43.

“What’s—”

“Check your 7.”

Pulse elevated, Sam pulls on his pants and does an exact about-face. He has no doubt that something is there. The question is what. The woods are home to all sorts of monsters and they were far from vigilant last night. The modicum of security Sam feels is only because his brother is a gifted predator.

He doesn’t spot them at first, but when he does, his heart skips a vital beat. He completes the circle, pretends to scan the perimeter. Two hunters (lowercase “h”) are watching through binoculars. Most likely, they’re after deer, but Sam and Dean’s makeshift campsite must be too interesting to ignore.

“How long have they—”

“They watched you piss,” Dean says. “Then, they started creeping closer.”

Sam’s blood is running hot enough that the chill isn’t an issue anymore. Back to his quarry, and preps his ammo.

“Dean?”

Green eyes glacial and focused, standing in his way is begging to be mowed down. But their training is meant for monsters, not random, curious civilians.

Dean knocks his clip into place. Sam holds his breath and steps in his brother’s path, a hand on his chest. Dean has busted his lights out for far less.

“Let’s just go home.”

With one a final sneer at the hunters, Dean hops into the driver’s side and pulls the truck onto the gravel road.

Sam breathes easier, but what would have happened if those guys had caught them sleeping, or if they’d been lurking last night? What if Sam hadn’t stopped his brother? What about all the times he isn’t with Dean?  
Dean would never hurt someone out of anger, or boredom, or carelessness, would he?

***

The truck floods with his brooding silence, but better to suffer Dean’s wrath than to have to visit him in prison.

Back in the apartment, Dean tosses his jacket over the back of the sofa and folds his arms. “What are you all pissy about?”

“What? Me?”

“You’re in bitch mode. Why?”

Sam had been trying to figure out why Dean was angry. Now, he’s on the defensive, matching his brother’s guarded stance. “I don’t like when you call me that.”

“What, Bitch?”

“You don’t have to be such a jerk all the time.”

“Maybe I do, Sammy. Maybe your big brother’s a jerk, and you’re a little bitch. It’s just nature.” Dean wanders into the kitchen, helps himself to the last frozen Eggo, and continues with his mouth full. “What I need you to do is stay out of trouble, because I don’t want to have to kill anybody. If I could tie you to a bed and never let you out of my sight, that’s what I’d do.”

When Dean pinches Sam’s check, it’s meant to be condescending, but without thinking Sam replies, “You could tie me to a bed.”

At Dean’s speechless blinking, a flame shoots through Sam’s system. He stands his ground and lets it burn.

“I mean, would you want to do that?” he asks.

Dean stuffs the entire waffle in his mouth, grabs Sam’s hips and pins him against the counter.  
He kneads Sam’s crotch while he finishes chewing. Then he opens Sam’s pants, slurping his neck until Sam is unbearably stiff in his hand and then falls to his knees.

As before, it doesn’t take long before Sam is convulsing and spurting down his brother’s throat, both hands clutching Dean’s skull. When he regains enough composure to look, glassy green eyes gaze up in unmistakable worship.

Still catching his breath, Sam wipes a tear from his brother’s cheek. “Why are you so good at that?”

Dean’s awe promptly shifts to anger. He stands and stalks away.

“What?”

Sam chases Dean across the living room, grabs the back of his jacket and spins his brother. He takes the punch he knows is coming, staggers sideways and touches his busted lip.

“I’m not a bitch.”

He decks Dean back with the same right hook he threw. His brother laughs and launches a counterattack. They land and roll on the floor for a few minutes until Dean relinquishes, letting Sam pin him.

“Don’t move.” Sam pants. “Okay?”

“What if it’s not okay?”

“Just fucking be still. Jerk.”

“Language, princess.” Dean folds his hands behind his head, lifting his hips, allowing Sam to lower his pants.

It’s a daunting task ahead of him. Sam’s not carrying a ruler, but his brother is at least seven inches long, and thick. He’d stroked Dean to completion last night in the back of the truck. That had felt like an accomplishment.

“I’ve never done this.”

“Good.”

“What if I’m not?”

“Can’t really get it wrong.”

Sam’s lip is busted from the tussle, but if he backs out now, it will look like he doesn’t want to. Being with Dean is like dancing on eggshells.

Holding his brother at the base, he licks his busted lip, then licks the tip. Tastes funny.

There’s an adjective for Milo.  
Dick tastes funny. Or rather, Dean’s pre-cum is bitter-salty. Like seawater. The shaft doesn’t taste like much at all. Sam could breathe his warm, earthy scent all day.

He should have expected the full, the choking sensation, but it startles him and he pulls off, coughing. Dean touches his cheek. “Okay?”

Sam nods. He’s mostly okay. Giving a blowjob is like trying to swallow a whole sausage, which isn’t something he’d do except to make his brother happy. Hard to tell if it’s working.

Dean looks kind of anguished.

“Is it that bad?”

Maybe if Sam had gone down on Milo and Kai he’d better at this. He never expected to regret that. Sam struggles to recall specific techniques Dean used, but at the time, his mind had been too dazed for note-taking.

“Tell me what to do.”

“Sam, you’re doing great.”

Sam shakes his head, on the verge of frustrated tears. He’s failing, and there is nothing worse than failure.

“Just show me. Please. Make me do it right.”

He takes in the tip and then waits until Dean guides his head to the pace and depth he wants. Sam moans but gives over control.

Dean rolls over, knocks him on his back and begins fucking his skull into the carpet. Sam sputters and punches Dean’s thigh until he relents. He turns on his side, hacking violently.

“Sorry. I…”

Eventually, Sam sits up, wipes his streaming eyes. His throat and jaw, his whole face aches. How can he break it to his brother that he doesn’t like giving head? Can he go on letting Dean suck him off if he doesn’t want to reciprocate? If they don’t do that, what’s left?

If he doesn’t suck Dean at some point, he’s going to ruin everything. But right now, he watches his brother beat off, splattering his shirt and emphatically shaking his head when Dean offers him spunk on his finger to eat.

***

Dean makes tiny French toast squares out of egg-soaked Saltine crackers and the last of the cheddar. It’s insanely delicious.

“At the bank today, an old lady asked the cashier to check her balance,” he says around a mouthful. “So the cashier pushed her over.”

Sam snorts and Dean smiles. Something brushes Sam’s ankle and he flinches. It takes a moment to realize that it’s his brother’s foot. Before Sam can properly respond, the foot is in his lap. He gapes and sits back while Dean’s toes play with his balls until the phone rings.

Smirking, Dean stands to answer, his voice audible from the other room.

“Hey, Bobby… Yeah, doing all right… Another week? Okay. That’s cool…”

It must be about their dad. There’s no telling why John has Bobby call rather than pick up a phone himself, but at least they know how much time is left. When he gets home, they’ll most likely act like nothing ever happened.

“Oh, yeah. He’s fine,” Dean says. “No, he can’t right now because he’s on the can taking a massive dump. Stinking up the entire —”

Sam leaves the table and lunges, laughing, reaching for the phone that Dean holds aloft. But older doesn’t mean taller any more. A brief, upright scuffle results in Sam prying the phone from his brother’s hand.

“Hi, Bobby.”

“Hey, son. How’s it going?”

“Going all right.”

Dean paces like a caged leopard with a raptor’s laser gaze. Sam answers Bobby on auto-pilot as Dean sinks to his knees burrowing his face in Sam’s crotch. It’s all he ever wants to do anymore.

“Excuse me, Bobby.” Sam holds his hand over the receiver. “What is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t finish my breakfast.”

Dean flicks open Sam’s button.

“You know what, Bobby, I, um… It’s actually about time for me to head out for school.”

“Yeah, of course. I was just up, so I thought I’d give you boys a holler. Sounds like y’all are getting along all right.”

“Yeah. For the most part.” Sam holds his hand against Dean’s forehead, keeping him at bay. “All right. Thanks, Bobby.”

He hangs up and shakes his head, incredulous. “Do you want him to find out?”

“What, because of your grunting? I told him you were taking a shit.”

It’s not funny. If Bobby, or anybody, finds out about this…  
What would they even do? Sam’s best bet is an exorcism, or institutionalization. Their dad would probably just murder them both and be done with it.

“Can you not—”

All seriousness is swept aside by Dean’s mouth. Sam’s eyelids flutter closed. He would push Dean off and make him stand up and take this seriously, only his brother is moaning and guzzling like a starving man. Jerking himself with the hand not on Sam’s stomach.

When Dean’s done, Sam slumps onto the sofa with his pants around his ankles. Dean kneels between his knees and sticks his nose in Sam’s pubes. It’s all super-sensitive and chafed down there.

“Dude.”

Sam tries to cover himself, but Dean presses his face to Sam’s belly and blows spitty. raspberries until Sam can’t fight the laughter.

Finally, he manages to pull Dean onto the sofa. According to Sam’s watch, it’s a few minutes before 7. They’d have to leave right now to be on time. He’s only ever missed school on his father’s insistence. Dean’s smile drops to a solemn blank. He doesn’t say whatever he’s thinking.

Sam kicks off his jeans and pulls up his underwear before he curls on his side with his head in his brother’s lap.

“I’m going in. Just a little late.”

Dean tugs his ear, cackling out loud at Loony Toons. When Sam giggles, it’s at Dean’s laughter.

***

Sam wakes at 10. He rested pretty fitfully in the cold last night. No wonder he needed to catch up on his sleep. If he gets up, showers and dresses now, he’ll arrive at school before 11, just in time to see Brock and Preston. He rolls onto his back, looks up at the most appealing man in the world and asks, “What’s for lunch?”

“What do you want?”

“Not ravioli.”

“You got it.”

Sam sits up so Dean can go into the kitchen. The fridge opens and closes. Sam smiles at Ren and Stimpy. It’s a brainless show, but he’d smile at just about anything right now. This thing with Dean feels fragile, but so good.

“How does ketchup sound?”

Sam enters the kitchen and peers into the fridge at a dried slice of American cheese, ketchup and a cracked egg.

***

Dean drops breadcrumbs into the shopping cart. That’s the last item he needs, but Sam has wandered off. Dean sighs and smiles. Never would have believed it’d make him this happy for Sam to skip school so they could spend the day together. Dean strolls down the candy aisle and snags two Snickers for dessert.

A lady makes a crackly intercom announcement about a sale on canned olives, then it’s back to canned music: a muzak rendition of Don’t Stop Believin’.

Dean sings along and finds his little brother in the produce row with an eggplant.

“Dad left you money for groceries, right?” Sam asks. “I don’t know why I never thought about that before.”

Sam never thought about it because he’s never had to. Because he’s spoiled like three-month-old milk. It’s okay. It’s good that Sam doesn’t worry about these things.

“Can we afford this?” he asks. “How much did he leave you?”

Their dad’s original prediction was that he’d be gone a week. Even if that had been true, the fifty dollars he left behind wouldn’t have been enough. It was better than no cash, but Dean always has to supplement. There are countless ways to make money. Sam hits the books. Dean hits the streets, as needed.

He nods at the eggplant. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Cook it.”

“Do you know how?”

Sam shrugs.

The thing doesn’t look like food. It looks like a dick from space. Dean shivers and says, “Put it back.”

When it takes Sam too long to meet him in the checkout line, Dean goes looking and finds his little brother talking to a girl. A woman, really. id-20s with a rapidly fading prettiness she hides behind a too-loud laugh. No way Sam said anything that funny.

She blinks at Dean’s approach. Can’t decide which brother she’d rather gawp at. Sam probably doesn’t even recognize that faint glow females get when they wish you’d smear their berry lipgloss and make them cry.

This girl would spread for either or both of them. A good older brother would give Sam a few tips and make sure he dicks her good. That ship has left the harbor. Sam is property. The fact that would even talk to this female means he doesn’t understand that.

Is Sam really not aware of his effect on this chick? Or is he flirting? Would he talk to a girl with the express intention of getting laid? With Dean right here in the same store? The little fucker.  
Where’s the closest place to get a cock cage?

Dean snatches the eggplant and tosses it into the cart.

“Say goodbye.”

“My brother —-“

“Now!”

Sam shrugs an apology and follows like a cowed pup.

Groceries purchased, Dean sits behind the steering wheel, composing himself. Jaw clamped. Deep breaths. Don’t lose it.

Sam watches a few minutes before he asks, “Are you mad at me?”

Dean is boiling in a low-level desire to see his brother bleed.

“What did I do?”

“Drop it.”

Sam huffs and shakes his head. “Why don’t you take me to school?”

“I’m taking you home and I’m gonna cook that thing.”

“I don’t even want it anymore.”

“I paid for it, you’re going to eat it or I’ll fucking shove it down your throat.”

That’s exactly the sort of thing Dean didn’t want to say. If Sam would have just shut up and let him work through his crazy. Always poking the hornet’s nest. Now, Dean looks like the bad guy again.

The little bitch shuts himself in the bedroom. If Dean confronts him now, it’s going to get vicious. Cooking, on the other hand, calms him.

He breads and pan-fries the chicken, beer-batters and deep-fries the broccoli in canola oil. He slices the eggplant and prepares half each way. Then he heats a can of spinach. When the food is done, he comes out and glares at their bedroom door. If that door is locked, he’s gonna bust it down.

“Lunch,” he says and walks away.

Sam could be asleep or reading, or wearing headphones. Dean doesn’t have to get upset. He reasons with himself, but he’s slipping over the edge toward apeshit.

As he’s stomping back to the room, the door opens and Sam meets him in the doorway. His eyes are red and puffy from crying.

Dean's momentary swell of triumph is overwhelmed by dark disgust. Why is Sam such a pussy? Why is Dean such a dick?

He turns away. “Lunch is ready.”

Sam sits with his face practically in his plate, pushing the food around with his fork. He nibbles the spinach, then the broccoli, then the chicken. He doesn’t say thank you and he doesn’t touch the eggplant. When he’s eaten everything else, he shoves his plate away.  
To keep himself from smushing his brother’s face in the food, Dean clears his plate.

Sam’s chair scrapes across the linoleum. “I’m gonna go out.”

“Where?”

Sam doesn’t answer. He just leaves the kitchen. Dean’s flaring anger is derivative of his monster-slaying rage. He tosses the washrag, trudging behind his brother. Sam opens the front door, Dean slams it closed again.

“You need to stay here.”

“Why?”

“I want you to try it.”

Sam spins and squints like Dean is crazy. “What are you talking about?”

“The eggplant. Turned out pretty good.”

Sam shakes his head, incredulous. Dean holds his ground and his temper. If Sam insists on leaving the apartment, there will be violence. But Sam sighs, takes Dean’s face between his hands and answers with a sweet peck.

“I wish you would just talk to me."

Dean leans his entire weight against his brother, crushing him to the wall. Sam’s slow, careful kisses make Dean dizzy, so he turns them into a ferocity. Rucks up his shirt, scrapes his blunt nails down Sam’s ribs. Savagery feels safer.

Sam doesn’t fight anymore. He melts into it. Gives himself over. Panting. Cursing under his rapid breath. Dean sinks his teeth into his brother’s shoulder, and peels out of his top layer of flannel. Then, with superhuman effort, he stops himself.

Sam is gasping, open-mouthed like a fish. “What?”

Doing this right by the apartment door is too stupid, even for Dean. He dips his knees, hoists his brother onto his shoulder like a skinny sack of onions and carries his plunder to the bedroom.

Sam bounces when he’s dropped on the mattress, tittering and already clawing at his fly.

Shirtless at the foot of the bed, Dean watches his baby brother scramble out of layers of clothing, hurling items across the room until he’s a perfectly bare boy. Sam strokes himself like he’s trying to start a fire, the other hand reaches around his thigh. His middle finger sinks between cheeks, making him wince. Sam meets Dean’s eyes before he drops his head back on the pillow, moaning. Did he think it wouldn’t hurt if he did it himself?

Part of Dean has already fled the room - the dwindling saint that would rather die than harm Sammy, or scare him away again.

“Help me,” Sam whispers.

Dean climbs over the baby and kisses him. Sweet, the way Sam likes. Then, he lifts bony knees to spindly shoulders and lowers to serve him.

“What are you— ”

“Sammy, shut up and let me take care of you.”

Sam’s hole is candy pink beneath a dusting of dark fur. Dean should have made him shower first. His scent is so thick and raw. Doesn’t matter. Dean’s taking all of this. With Sam neatly folded in half, he nuzzles Sam’s balls, sniffing his taint and planting a kiss there. He sheds the rest of his clothes and points.

“Hand me that stuff from the top drawer.”

Sam stretches to reach it, his body a long, pretty line that Dean is going to make levitate.

Relying on a witch’s brew of Marco’s advice, years of experience and ravenous attention to Sam’s every reaction, he licks, tongues, fingers and massages cheeks, thighs and hole. Even when his face buzzes and Sam whimpers, he doesn’t stop. Sam is too soft, too good.

“Please, Dean. Please. God.”

Finally, he crawls up and hovers.

Sam’s nose wrinkles. “You smell like ass.”

“Your ass. You’re welcome.”

Now, when Dean fills him with two fingers, Sam tenses, but doesn’t run.

“Oh.”

“Good?”

A nod. That’s a win.

Dean slips in and out, simulating what’s to come, his own body warming with anticipation.

Sam winces. “Oh, God.”

“If something’s not good, you got to say it.”

“It’s good.” Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck and whines as Dean continues to stretch him.

He moans.

“Is that good or bad, Sam?”

Sam moves his hips, changing the angle. “It’s good. Ah. God.”

Dean flips open the tube with his left hand and his teeth, removes his fingers to squelch lube into his palm.

“Put it back.”

Dean smiles at his brother’s demand and chuckles when Sam hisses at the cold.

“You’re going to like this.”

Sam strokes himself as Dean slides a generous portion inside. The fear and trust in his dilated eyes are the only reason Dean rolls on a rubber. Since Sam is watching, he asks, “You ever use one of these?”

Sam shakes his head.

“I’ll show you one day,” Dean says, as if he isn’t struggling with the process himself.

Never uses these stupid things. Once it’s in place, he directs his brother to get on his belly.

“I want to see you.”

“It’ll hurt less.”

“I don’t care.”

“Roll over, now.”

Sam sucks his teeth, but obeys. Dean rewards him with a slow slide into his perfect, tight heat. He gnaws his tongue to keep from cursing, since vulgarity would wreck the moment for Sam.

“Ow, God. You’re huge.” Sam bites his arm and whimpers like a porn star.

“Should I— Is it good?”

“Yes,” Sam sobs the word. “Don’t stop.”

“Sam.” Dean begins to pull out anyway.

“No, no. Don’t. Just. Oh, wow. Ow. Kiss me.”

It’s Dean’s turn to obey. He lowers over his brother’s back, kissing his ear, his cheek, craning to reach his mouth. Inadvertently pressing deeper. When Sam only continues to tense, Dean withdraws.

“No. Please.”

Dean props pillows beneath Sam’s belly and little brother curls himself like a turtle, head turned aside, arms tucked beneath him.

“All right?”

Sam nods.

Dean rests both hands on the center of his back, pacing each drive inside, listening for distress. He rubs shoulder to shank drawing a long, low hum that doesn’t sound like pain.

“You good?”

When Sam nods and groans, Dean’s hands shift to his hips, gripping, but not too tight, trying not to lose himself in Sam’s moans and gasps.

Dean reaches for his brother’s ankles, but Sam rises on his knees, glancing over his shoulder.

“Let me turn over,” he says. “I want to see you.”

The sheen of sweat that covers Dean’s body isn’t from exertion but the effort of restraint. Girls often comment on his vigor in bed, but never his stamina. He’s never going to last if he has to look Sam in the eye.

But the only light is from a streetlamp. Dean gestures permission for Sam to flip onto his back. He holds his cock, whimpering as Dean reenters, eyes and mouth wide with awe.

Dean hooks a thumb in the corner of his brother’s mouth. Wraps a hand around his skinny, little throat. It’s so hot, Dean starts to lose it, until Sam’s face contorts in confusion. Marco never said not to choke out the virgin, but maybe he shouldn’t.

“Sorry,” Dean says, shaking off the aggression. “I’m sorry.”

He kisses Sam, swallows his purrs. A current sizzles down his spine, pulsing hot in his heavy, tightening balls.

Dean leans up for a full view of his brother wide open and pliant.

“Are you all right?”

Sam nods, pale chest heaving, arms out wide as Christ. Dean brings an ankle to his shoulder, relishes in Sam’s gasp.

“Okay?”

“Deep.”

Balls deep. Skin to damp skin. Sam’s hand on his ass, urging him closer. His eyes shut. He grimaces, clutches Dean’s bicep, huffing like a greyhound.

“Sam?”

“Shut up.”

Dean hugs that raised thigh, hiking Sam’s calf to his shoulder. The other leg drops to the side and Dean reaches between them for Sam’s pulsing wood. Little brother’s moans swell into rapturous hums.

“It’s good, yeah?”

“Yessss.”

Sam’s teeth grit. Eyes fling wide and then squeeze tight. Fingertips digging into Dean’s ass. His hole clenches even tighter and Dean growls. He collapses and his brother’s arm curls around his head. Nothing should ever feel this good, because when it ends, what’s left?

They’re humming together now, groaning in tandem, Sam’s ankles locked at the base of Dean’s spine, fingers sliding through his hair.

“Oh God, Dean.”

“Fuck, Sammy.”

It won’t be long. Dean’s sweat-drenched body whips into a fevered pace, coaxed deeper and faster by Sam’s pleas. For one vicious moment, he grinds his final, desperate thrust, empties himself in rapture and falls, shuddering on his brother’s shoulder.

Dean thinks of a joke and holds his tongue. Loses himself in the joint rhythm of their breathing. Sam chokes out a laugh and Dean’s anger blazes to the surface. What the hell is so fucking funny?

Nothing, because it’s not laughter. Sam is weeping.

Dean pulls out, leaves on the condom and lays at his side. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Sam dries his face with his wrist and turns away.

“Sammy, I’m sorry. I won’t—”

“No. I just…” Sam tells the wall.

He still hasn’t come. His dick is stiff and purple and Dean would touch, but he doesn’t want to break anything else.

“I think this is making me crazy,” Sam says.

“You’re not —-”

“I think … I love you. Like, in the wrong way.”

“There’s no wrong way.”

Sam rolls over and buries his mess of sniffles and tears in Dean’s chest.

“Sammy, I never want to be away from you, for anything, ever.”

Sam chuckles like it was one of Dean’s jokes.

Shouldn’t have said that. Too far. Dean laughs, too, pinches his brother’s nips too hard. Sam yelps and covers himself. Dean puts his mouth to good use, taking care of his brother. Then he hops off the bed and fumbles with the troublesome cum-filled Ziploc melded to his soft dick.

“All right,” he says. “You shower first.”

***

Sam is happy to follow good orders. He steps under the warm spray. He’s lathering the soap when the curtain swings open.

Dean steps inside, gasps and then turns the water temperature high enough to boil eggs. Sam hides behind him, avoiding the steam, although, now he’s shivering.

He hasn’t gotten to wash yet, but he’ll finish when Dean is done, if there’s any hot water left. Before he can leave the stall, Dean catches his arm.

“Where you going?”

Sam is not going anywhere with his brother staring at him like this. He stands where Dean puts him, watches his brother work up a thick foam and soap his chest in wide circles. Sam just came, but it doesn’t matter. Dean’s hands all over him are an instant aphrodisiac.

“Remember when I used to give you baths?”

Sam does not remember, but it feels good now to let his brother wash him, paying especial attention to his rigid cock, his balls, the insides of his thighs, his tender asshole. Then Dean shifts behind and pushes Sam under the searing spray.

“Ah, God! How can you stand it?”

Sam splits the difference, bringing the water down to a mere scald as his brother reaches around to rinse him. Pressed against Sam’s back, he strokes him almost to completion, letting go at the last moment. Dean shoves Sam against the tile so that only his ass is beneath the water. He cleans Sam’s back, kneels to scrub all the way down his legs. Kisses his behind, licks inside like he did before, turning Sam’s knees into jelly. Then, he stands, soaps Sam’s hind end again, and aligns himself.

Sam sucks in a soft gasp and bites his lower lip. He’s sore, the soap burns, and he’s not ready. But he doesn’t complain. Just clenches his fists and tries not to make a sound.

“You okay?”

Sam nods as Dean enters hot and hard as a dagger. It chafes and burns and can’t possibly end soon enough.

“Shit, you’re so hot, Sam.”

When Dean is on the edge, he reaches around, but it’s difficult to get hard while you’re focusing on not screaming out loud.

“Is it good for you, baby?”

Sam bites his tongue, nods and takes it. When the sex and the shower are finally over, he carefully touches his raw hole and blows out a long exhale before stepping into clean shorts.

An hour later, he’s reclined on the sofa: clad in only underwear with a book in his lap and his feet between Dean’s sweetly kneading hands. On the first commercial break, his brother asks, “How you feeling over there?”

“I’m very well, thank you.”

“Your ass is not--”

“My ass is fine.”

I wasn’t—“

“I told you. I loved it.”

Dean nods and goes back to massaging Sam’s soles. “I mean, you’d tell me if—”

“Dean.”

“All right.”

Actually, Sam’s butt is buzzing. It’s killing him, but he’s not telling his brother anything. He will, however, try that thing Dean did at the table earlier. He extricates one foot and digs his toes into Dean’s crotch.

“Hey, watch it.”

“Sorry.” Sam tries to retract his feet, but Dean catches his ankles.

“I didn’t say stop. I said be careful.”

But Sam folds his legs and barely keeps from leaving the room in humiliation. It’s not that serious. Dean’s not angry. Just relax.

“Would you ever let me do you?”

It’s a joke. Just to see what his brother says.

Dean’s brow raises. “Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Of course.”

“Seriously?”

Dean clicks off the TV. Sam’s nerves make him chuckle. He didn’t mean now, or really ever seriously. But Dean assumes the position in his own bed, teeth deep in the pillow.

Sleep, shower, eat. Repeat.  
Time runs liquid and untraceable. Day happens outside. In their apartment, there’s only screwing and laughter, Dean's cuisine and catnaps in each other's arms. School, monsters: whatever's going on out there has nothing to do with these boys.

Then, it’s dark out and dark in their room. Dean lays behind Sam, fucking him slow and deep. It hurts so sweet. Their moans falling into sync, Sam’s fingers twined with Dean’s on his belly. Dean’s other arm supporting Sam’s neck. His face in Sam’s hair.

When it’s over, he rolls onto his back and plucks off the condom, making less mess than the first few times.

Sam wonders, but doesn’t ask why his brother wears a rubber. He doesn’t speak at all. He waits until Dean is ready and then snuggles back into his brother’s warm, strong arms. His entire back is plastered in sweat to Dean’s front. Their legs woven together, ankles stacked as they drift into a sound, sated sleep.

Well after midnight, a familiar creak ends Sam’s slumber. His eyes pop open, body tenses as the apartment door squeaks open.

The alarm clock blinks 3:17 AM.

Before Sam can wonder whether Dean is awake, his brother steals from under the covers and creeps over to his own bed. Their father’s heavy boots thump across the living room floor. In the dark, Dean is invisible in his bed. They couldn’t be farther apart if he was at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.


	15. Chapter 15

The sky is black as sin when a barked order yanks Sam from a fitful sleep.

Dean already is up, or rather he’s face-down on the floor. Their father jerks Sam to his feet, then shoves him beside his brother. There’s just enough space between the beds for parallel push-ups with their elbows knocking.

Sam’s burning arms manage a total of 43 before John staggers back into the living room grousing under his breath about, “lazy fuckers.”

Dean spares a glance before he follows. Sam pulls on a pair of underwear, casts a longing gaze at his bed. Did he even get two hours? 

He joins his family in time to catch the end of the lecture.

“… doesn’t mean you stop training. Doesn’t mean the danger has passed. Look at that salt line. How about something comes in here and grabs your brother? You wouldn’t even be ready.”

That’s always been their father’s tactic for scaring Dean straight. Sam is a juicy morsel in a world of hungries. If Dean isn’t vicious and ever-vigilant something will gobble Sam up and it will be Dean’s fault. Half the time, Sam isn’t sure whether he’s bait or a carrot to make Dean fight harder.

This morning’s prescription for John’s slacker sons is a 10-mile run. Never mind that it’s 26° outside, and 4 o’clock in the morning. Dean suits up. Sam suits up. They run. Dean doesn’t say a word. Sam follows suit. 

When they return, sweaty and freezing, to the apartment, their father is waiting in his easy chair with a beer. 

“To the death,” he says pointing at the space in front of the TV

The rules of Winchester sparring are simple: the loser either taps or passes out.  
The other rule is that Sam doesn’t win. It isn’t an official rule, it’s just the way it’s always been, his whole life. Dean is bulkier, stronger, better.

“Begin.”

Dean always strikes first, but this time it’s with a lighter than usual touch - lunging at Sam’s middle and knocking him to the ground. That initial move establishes that they’ll be wrestling rather than punching or kicking each other. More strain, less pain.

Dean grunts as loudly as ever, but his holds are loose. Every now and again, he breathes into Sam’s ear, barely audible: 

“Do it.”

He leaves himself open in ways he normally wouldn’t. Lets Sam pin him twice. It’s not unprecedented. From time to time, Sam does get the upper hand. But this isn’t a fair fight. Dean’s trying to throw it. 

Yeah, well. There’s no way Sam’s going to knock out his brother just because their father says so. If Dean wants to take the fall, he can tap out.

Sam sits on Dean’s chest, panting, pinning his arms with his knees. It would be hot if their dad wasn’t ringside. It’s hot anyway. If Sam springs one, it won’t be the first time. They’re wrestling. It happens.

Dean’s eyes narrow as he mutters, “Fuck it.” 

He bucks and easily flips Sam onto his back. Dean’s face is stony and resolute, but he won’t strike. He wouldn’t. 

“Close your eyes.”

Sam refuses.

Dean’s punches are like a jackhammer, sparing his nose and mouth but pummeling the side of his head, once, twice, three times. Sam doesn't manage to tap the floor before everything goes dark.


	16. Chapter 16

Breathing hurts. So does thinking. Sam’s jaw clicks noisily when he opens his mouth. Chewing would be unbearable.

They leave the apartment while their dad is still asleep. On the drive, Dean stops at their playground and tells a joke. Sam doesn’t even try to laugh. He troubles the raw inside of his cheek. The pain is good to distract him from wondering whether Dean will touch him.

So far, no good.

His brother stares ahead at the mist and the swings and doesn’t breathe a word.

Rather than risk certain rejection, Sam rummages in his pocket and pulls out the folded dragon drawing from Preston. He meant to do this the first day he got it.

“They still your favorite?”

Dean unfolds the paper and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Yeah. Did you draw this?”

“No. A friend.”

“It’s good,” Dean says. “Thanks.”

Sam nods, tries and fails to swallow.

“Look, we can’t—”

“I know.”

“Not even —”

“I know.”

“I mean, if dad—”

“Dean, I know.”

***

The first part of the day, Sam spends all his mental effort trying not to think about his brother’s mouth and the all the places it had been. Already in first period, he fails, in a big way, and solved the situation by laying his head on his desk. The bell rings, the class clears and the teacher asks if he’s okay.

“Is everything okay at home?” she asks.

For a moment, Sam stops breathing. What can she possibly know? The inquisitive pity in her gaze explains that she’s asking about the bruises, not his erection.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I just…” Sam touches his face. It’s better not to try to explain.

“Would you like to go talk to Miss Evans?”

The counselor.

“No, I’m fine,” Sam says. “I just have a stomachache.”

By the time his teacher writes the hall pass, his boner has flagged under the interrogation. When she looks away, he privately adjusts his pants and trudges to second period. Other than a weird look from Sally, not much else happens all morning. Sam focuses twice as hard on his class work and survives until lunch without any other bodily snafus.

Sam avoids the cafeteria. An afternoon of hunger will be better than hulking out if Brock so much as looks crossways at him.

He slinks into Ms. Jeffries’ room and grunts, “Hi.”

No Preston. That’s probably for the best. If that kid has a crush on him…

What? So what if he does? Sam likes it with guys.  
No.  
Sam likes it with Dean, which is not the same thing.  
Sam is sinking in love with his brother and it’s probably good their dad came home when he did. This wasn’t going to get any better.

“Is Preston here?” Sam asks, because he’s an idiot.

“Actually, Sam, I wanted to ask,” Ms. Jeffries says, capping her pen. “How close are you two?”

“Not. Really. I mean…”

“Because I’m a little worried. He comes in here every day. I never see him eat. He’s visibly thinner than last month.”

Why was she telling Sam? He just said he wasn’t the guy’s friend.

“I haven’t known him that long.”

But if Sam chooses to miss one day of lunch to avoid Brock, it’s no surprise that Preston does it daily. Then why doesn’t the kid just bring food from home? Sam could do that: pack a can of ravioli in his bag, bust out the can opener in Ms. Jeffries room. This whole situation is out of control.

When Preston enters the room, it’s behind a girl with long, mouse-brown hair. He glances at Sam but doesn’t speak. The socket around Preston’s left eye is yellow and purple which means a day or two ago it was black. His lip is scabbed.

Sam is too stunned by the sight of him to speak. It’s apparently mutual.

Miss Jeffries makes introductions, “Cara, do you know Sam?”

The girl nods and Sam mumbles a greeting.

“You were out, like, two days.” Preston asks in a voice he’s trying not to let sound accusing. “Were you sick?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Sam answers. “What happened to your face?”

“I fell.”

“Yeah?”

Preston nods without looking up. Sam used the same dumb excuse to cover when Brock pushed him down the steps. Somebody really ought to put a stop to that cretin. Sam could humble him, but what happens when he leaves town? At some point, Preston is going to be stuck with Brock again. It’s not Sam’s business. Not any more than any vampire infestation or werewolf attack.

“What happened to your face,” Preston asks.

“Same.”

When Miss Jeffries and Cara confer with each other, Preston sits beside Sam and whispers, “I had this friend, Matt, in second grade. One time, his dad yanked his arm all the way of the socket. He couldn’t use it for like 6 months and when the body cast came off, that arm was all small and pale like a zombie or something.”

The look on Preston’s face is conspiratorial and sober and there’s no explanation for Sam’s outburst of laughter.

“What?” Pres says, sitting back in his chair. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Sam can’t claim that his dad doesn’t hit him because that’s not entirely true. But his dad doesn’t beat on him. His dad trains him, which is different from abuse.

Preston squints for a second and then he starts to laugh. There’s no good reason for it, but Sam feels so much better, it’s kind of a miracle. Preston’s not being the best looking kid in the world, but. there’s something cute about him.  
Maybe it’s how completely harmless he is. And awkward and transparent. He’s basically the anti-Dean.

Miss Jeffries perks up, smiling, on the outside of their joke.

“Preston, have you given any more thought to joining MindGames?”

He squints like she’s speaking ancient Sumerian.

“I have your name on the Interested list from the beginning of the year.”

“Don’t we have to stand up in front of the whole school?”

“Cara’s doing it, aren’t you, Cara?” Miss Jeffries says.

Cara is looking at Preston the same way Preston is looking at Sam.

“We need two more students.”

“He’ll do it,” Sam says in a fit of inspiration.

The thing with Dean is over, and Sam has to occupy himself so he doesn’t go insane.

Preston shakes his head. “What?”

“Yeah, he’s doing it,” Sam repeats. “And so will I.”

***

The sign on the door says 10 AM. Dean’s watch gives him 47 minutes to chicken out. He doesn’t want to know. The few times he’s gotten down with a girl (always girls) who insisted on a condom, he bounced.

Sam didn’t even ask about it. He’d eyed the rubbers and used one when Dean told him to. He’ll do whatever Dean says. That’s why he has to do the right thing, even when the chick behind the desk quotes a price three dollars shy of every penny Dean owns.

“Son of a …”

Money, he can replace. If he gets his brother sick, there’s no undoing that. Dean pays in cash.

“You’re looking kind of green there, cowboy,” the nurse grins.

Guns and knives are one thing, but needles make him want to hurl.

“Just freaking do it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut through the worst of it, pisses in the freaking cup, and lets the nurse gag him with a cotton swab. The bitch gives him a sticker and a fistful of complimentary condoms.

***

  
For the last two hours, Sam has been dying to see Dean. To touch him, even just hold his hand in the truck on the way back. They don’t have to do anything else, but if they don’t do anything, Sam is pretty sure he’s going to wind up crying in front of his brother. That’s the definition of Hell.

He steps through the double doors into the cold afternoon sunlight. The schoolyard bustles with students going and buses and all Sam sees is Sally and Dean by the truck arguing. He hovers over her, but she doesn’t back down. Their faces are close enough to kiss. Sam looks away as if the sight of their heated conversation might burn his eyes.

“Who is that guy?” Brock knocks an elbow against Sam’s ribs.

As much as Sam hates the guy, he wouldn’t turn Dean loose on him. Maybe all Brock needs is a sit-down. Someone to ask if there’s trouble at home. He’s not a monster, after all. He’s just a senior.

Before Sam can intercede, Brock is striding toward Dean and Sally.  
She extricates herself from the argument, runs to Brock and kisses him, pulls his arm and turns him to walk in the other direction. It doesn’t work. He keeps peering over her head at Dean who smirks and waves.

This can’t happen.

“Who the fuck are you?” Brock shouts.

Sam skips, trips and runs toward his brother. Sally pulls her boyfriend’s arm, but she’s like a mouse tugging a freight train. Dean smiles and waits.

Sam skids between them, meeting his brother’s eyes and blocking his view of Brock who yells, “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

“Don’t,” Sam mumbles.

“Move.” Dean shoves him aside, takes four long steps and administers one cold upper cut to Brock’s jaw.

It’s not a fight. It’s a one-punch massacre.  
Brock goes down. Dean chuckles and Sam leaps between them, taking a hard kick to his shin rather than letting Brock take one to the face.

“Idiot,” Dean says. “Why did you —”

Hobbling, Sam muscles him back to the truck.

As Dean eases into drive, he winds down the window and grins at his wreckage. Sam pulls up his jeans to examine his shin. That’s definitely going to bruise.

If Dean is capable of remorse, it hasn’t set in yet. “You shouldn’t have gotten in the way.”

“You can’t just do that.”

“I’m supposed to just let him come at me?”

Everyone saw what happened. Brock never even threw a blow. Everyone knows Dean is associated with Sam. Sally knows Dean is Sam’s brother. All his restraint with Brock and now he’ll be expelled by association.

Of course, Brock had it coming, but Dean has also been going around with Brock’s girlfriend. It might have been nice to see him struck once.

Besides, what were he and Sally even fighting about? Her thing with Brock? Does this mean now that Dean knocked out his foe, that he wins the girl? Is that how this works? Is that what Dean wants? Of course, it is. He and Sam are over.

They drive in silence, Sam staring at his brother a few seconds too long before Dean glances over and then back at the road.

That’s why. Sam is the weak link. He’d get them killed, with his longing gazes and girlish sighs. Dean would go on screwing females, and being an asshole, and their dad would be none the wiser. It’s over because of Sam’s weakness.

He watches out of the window until they park in an alley. Dean hops out and strolls to the backdoor of some business. This could be anything and until Sam has information, he’s remaining in his seat. Or until Dean gestures to follow. No indication about weaponry or what they’ll encounter.

Just in case, Sam brings his loaded backpack.

The man behind the bar is stocky and dark-haired. He looks up and grins as Dean slings an arm over Sam’s shoulder.

“Marco, this is my boy.”

Marco puts down his dishrag and hums an acknowledgement. “If you two aren’t the first day of spring.”

“Sammy, say hey.”

“Hi.”

Sam offers the bartender his hand and an uncertain smile.

“Dean’s told me a lot about you.”

That could mean anything. Sam doesn’t respond. Marco digs into his pocket and tosses Dean a set of keys. “Clean up after yourselves.”

Dean gestures for Sam to walk ahead and smacks his ass as he passes. Sam stops, considers swinging an elbow, or catching his brother in a headlock. It’s not worth the retaliation. Better to let this unfold.

At the top of the stairs, Dean unlocks the door and lets Sam into a small office with a desk across from a black sofa. There’s hardly anything else in the room. Dean tosses his jacket and then himself onto the couch, indicating that Sam should take the space beside him.

Sam folds his arms. “What did you tell him?”

“He’s cool, man.”

In such a tiny room, it’s easy to feel trapped. “I don’t belong to you.”

“What?”

“I’m not … yours. You told that guy I was your boy. I’m not.”

“I actually told him that we’re foster brothers.” Dean sits up. “If anybody asks, my Dad took you in when you were small.”

The story pierces his chest like a dagger.

“I had to say something, Sam.”

He didn’t have to say something that feels so close to true.

Dean adds, under his breath. “It’s what I should have told Sally.”

“Are you still seeing her?”

“No.” Dean tells Sam’s left shoulder. “I want you to meet me here after school from now on. It’s about a mile. You just walk over. I’ll be working here now.”

“What?”

“Marco’s going to teach me to mix drinks.”

“Dad’s not going to let you—”

“I’m an adult, Sam.”

You wouldn’t know it, the way Dean jumps whenever their dad says Boo.

“We’re here a year, right?”

They both know that’s at John Winchester’s discretion. He’s promised Bobby and Sam and the school, and that doesn’t mean a thing.

“Might as well learn a trade,” Dean says. “Once we catch that SOB killed mom, maybe settle down somewhere like this, open my own place.”

He stands, steers Sam by his hips until he’s sitting on the edge of the desk.

“You and me, we get a little apartment together.”

His hands up ride up Sam’s shirt, warm on his hot chest. Sam’s eyes close. He exhales through his lips. Wasn’t sure he’d ever have this again, or how he would have survived without it.

“You’ll be doing some nerdy thing. Teaching or something.”

Dean kisses Sam’s neck. You can change and touch a lot of lives as a teacher.

“That. Sound good?”

“And what?” Sam asks. “We tell everybody we’re foster brothers?”

“Shut up, man.”

Dean kisses him quiet. Caresses him pliant. Tugs Sam’s jeans down around his ass, puts him on his back, sneakers in the air and turns him into a whining mess, clutching his big brother’s shirt.

When it’s over, Dean uses Marco’s baby wipes to clean up. Sam fixes his clothes and stands in the middle of the floor, blinking like a freshly-ravaged princess.

“You good?”

He nods.

“I’m going to head down,” Dean says. “You can stick around up here, do your homework, take a nap. Whatever you need to do.”

Sam takes all of Dean’s advice. Trig, Chem, the last page of the Charlemange paper. He sleeps a little, and wakes up even more tired and confused, at first, about where he is. The faux-wood panel walls are bare. There’s one tiny window and nothing but a computer on the desk. Maybe Dean cleared it in preparation for their afternoon delight.

Sam is tempted, but doesn’t rummage through the drawers. He does, however, find a framed photo fo the bartender, Marco, and another man. A blond. They don’t look like brothers and they sure aren’t acting like friends. Then again, there’s Sam and Dean who don’t exactly look alike and haven’t been acting very brotherly lately.

Still, there can’t be many guys in the world doing what he and his brother are doing. And none who’re framing pictures of it. If Sam didn’t know where he was before, he’s crystal clear now. Nearly two hours have passed and the office is making him claustrophobic. The walls are slanting toward each other. When is Dean going to come let him out of this place?

Another half-hour of proofreading his paper and Sam works up the nerve to venture down the steps toward Dancing in the Dark. Music from a jukebox, murmuring, clanking of glasses. He stands at the foot of the steps, where he can see without being seen.  
It’s 7 PM on a Friday night and so far only six older men in faded jeans and trucker caps are in the place. Gay hillbillies? Not Sam’s business.

There are so few patrons that Dean’s act of passing out beers seems extraneous. Then again, if these men like looking at guys, he’s in the right place. And Dean doesn’t seem to mind them watching.

If Sam looked like Dean, he’d be the most self-conscious person in the world. People are always staring at him. Mostly girls, but sometimes guys, too. Dean acts like he doesn’t notice. Maybe he’s just used to it. The good news is with Dean in the room, no one looks at Sam.

Still.

He could just as easily stay upstairs until Dean is ready to go. Curious, considering, open isn’t the same as certain and Sam has never been in a place like this?

He’s caught up in his musing when Marco shouts over the Springsteen: “He can’t really be in here, Dean. They’d love to come in here and shut us down over a minor.”

“Please, oh please. Marco.” That’s not Dean’s voice.

Sam doesn’t see which of the men pleads for him to stay, but the comment makes his face warm.

“What?” Marco argues. “You already got that one to gawk at, you bunch of greedy bitches.”

A hand falls on Sam’s shoulder. Rather than flinch or fight, he freezes. It’s not exactly danger. The grinning, overweight man attached to the hand says, “I’ll keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t —”

Dean knocks Sam’s admirer’s hand away. “Listen, man. You touch him again, you’re going to make me lose my job.”

“Mea culpa, buddy.”

Dean grabs Sam’s arm and pulls him aside. “You don’t you let these fuckers touch you. Got it?”

“You know, I can actually look out for myself.”

“What did I say?”

“What is your deal?” Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who brought me here.”

“Because this is the only place on earth I can do this.” Dean curls an arm around Sam’s waist, drags him close and stuffs his tongue into Sam’s mouth.

The place erupts in hoots and applause. It’s a valid point.

***

Closer to midnight, the bar gets packed and loud and musty. There’s no shortage of attention for Sam and he’s not sure he loves being looked and laughed and privately pawed at. It’s all in good nature and above the waist. But it’s a lot.

He gives a feeble wave when everyone wishes them a loud, fond goodnight. Marco stops them at the door and mumbles something that ends with, “…how lucky you are?”

Dean replies,” Yeah.”

He shakes Marco’s hand and says a final goodnight.

“You take good care of this, Sam. Keep him out of trouble.”

“I will,” Sam promises, with no idea how he'd even start.

All he knows, sitting in the cold, dark passenger’s seat waiting for the vent to blow warm air, is that Dean has found a sanctuary. They can’t so much as look at each other wrong outside of it.

But it’s dark, and this day has been long, and the truck is lulling him to sleep. Without conferring with his brain, his hand reaches for Dean’s. His brother quickly pulls away and Sam turns his attention out of the window, ignoring the jagged ache in his chest.

“Sorry.”

The same hand Sam was reaching for curls around his neck, kneads and massages, fingers sliding over his scalp until Sam closes his eyes and cranes into it. Not good when he needs his brother’s touch like air.

***

Their dad’s car is not in the apartment parking lot and the old man is not in the place. To be sure, Dean calls out for him, knocks on his door, the bathroom. Nothing.

It’s after midnight in VA, but only a little after 10 in South Dakota. Dean makes the call and Sam stands at his elbow, listening in. It’s a brief conversation at the end of which Dean shakes his head.

Their dad was gone nearly two weeks and now, it looks like, he’s left again. Only a bad son would celebrate. Apparently, that’s what Sam is. He does so silently, though, because Dean looks concerned.

There are few men who can take better care of themselves. In the meantime, Sam wants Dean’s hands on him - anywhere. Grinning across the Dad-less space they have all to themselves again, Sam begins a slow approach. Dean remains perfectly stoic, shakes his head and says, “Go to bed.”

Sam has, at times, possessed the wherewithal to contradict his older brother, but not when he’s being rejected.

He does as he’s told. Maybe, he is Dean’s boy.

Over an hour passes before Dean comes to bed. Sam wishes he was a sleep and pretends to. Be when Dean undresses and gets into his bed.

Laying in the dark, listening to his brother’s breath, it’s not much of a choice. Sam can keep to his bed and burn to ash from the inside. The second he slips under Dean’s comforter, Dean hops to his feet, ripping out Sam’s heart and carrying it with him to the door. Sam covers his face with both hands, squeezes back the tears.

But Dean is not leaving. He’s simply older and wiser, locking the door before he returns to bed.

Sam lays on his side and his brother fucks him so deep and slow, that Sam stops fighting it and lets the rapturous tears spill down his cheek and drench the pillow.

Dean’s solution to Sam’s mess aversion is always the same. He sinks beneath the covers, takes his little brother into his mouth and negates the need for cleanup. Sam is still gasping and shuddering when Dean slides in behind him, kisses his ear and whispers, “What’s red and —”

“How’d you wind up at The Park?”

For a moment, the world is reduced to Dean’s warmth at his back and his breath in Sam’s hair.

“Stopped by for directions,” Dean finally answers.

As if he doesn’t have a map. As if he ever asked for help. As if he coincidentally stumbled into a gay bar.

What if they do run away and live together as lovers? Not here, but somewhere no one knows them. Dean could mix drinks, Sam would finish school. They’d get a little place, maybe a dog.

“You’re going to give yourself a stroke, Sammy. Quit thinking so much.”

Sam rolls over to face Dean who allows one brief kiss before demanding Sam go back to his bed. The younger brother shrinks eight years.

“Come on,” Dean leans away. “Be good. You know we’re not supposed to do this here.”

The pout wells up behind Sam’s teeth. His eyes bulge to a puppy’s gaze. Not intentionally. This reaction is an ingrained survival instinct. But it’s either too dark in the room or too cold in Dean’s heart. Nothing works. Dean sends him away.

Sam’s sheets will never be warm enough again without his brother in the too-small bed.

He rolls on his side, onto his other side, lays on his belly, buries his face in the pillow.

“Go to sleep,” Dean hisses across the room.

Sam lays on his back and tries to count the cells in his body.

When Dean crawls into his bed, it feels almost better than anything else they’ve done.  
Sam falls asleep to Dean humming Dancing in the Dark.

He wakes to the sound of wood cracking and to his father’s voice yelling, “Get up!”

The door dangles from its hinges. It’s not the first door their father ever kicked in. Won’t be the last.


	17. Chapter 17

Dean hangs up the phone.

“Well, fuck.”

He always thought a little burning and itching was normal. That call would have been worse if he didn’t already hate himself. As it is, a Chlamydia diagnosis is just a confirmation that he’s a filthy, worthless, piece of shit.

He spent his entire weekend beating the crap out of his little brother. And Sam just barely defended himself while their father nodded like he’d paid for his ringside seat.

Unfortunately, Chlamydia is not a dying disease. Doesn’t even hurt. Dean never would have known. And they can treat it. Hooray for modern science.

Meanwhile, their father still hasn’t breathed a word about what he saw. And there’s no question.  
Sam and Dean were sleeping, skin to skin, in the same bed. Thank god, they weren’t actively fucking, but it hadn’t been long since they’d finished and the room must have smelled like it.

Dean knew better and he did it anyway. Sam knew better and he let Dean do it. Their father has just been training them. Rough, but about the same as it always is when he’s been away a while.

The real punishment is brewing under John Winchester’s placid surface. If the old man tries to send Sam to that camp, Dean will kill or die before he lets it happen.

The lady on the phone suggests he come in and pick up a prescription, but what for? He won’t be touching Sam again. Not only because their father knows, or because Dean spent the entire weekend bashing the shit out of his brother. Not even because he’s got this goddamn STD, but because that shit is wrong and Dean has hurt Sam enough.

After his dad’s training this weekend, Dean ought to be desensitized to the pain of hurting Sam, but it’s the worst fucking feeling there is. He deserves to rot away, dick first.

***

By Monday, Sam drags his spar-battered, battle-worn body into the school like a creaky old man. If he expected Dean to go easy on him, the reverse was true. Sam had never been hit so hard and so often, even by monsters who wanted him dead. All while their father watched and jeered.

He just walked out of the room with the door hanging off the hinges. Didn’t yell about what he’d seen, which is even scarier than if he had.

Sam sleeps through first period with his head on the desk. The teacher asks about the counselor again. In second period, Sally keeps shooting weird looks which are nothing compared to the stare-down he gets from Brock while he’s in the lunchline. But Dean must have knocked some sense into his square head, because Brock doesn’t approach and doesn’t say a word.

The idea of talking to Preston, or anyone else, is nauseating. If Sam Winchester were his brother, he would have skipped this day. If he were his brother, he’d be dropping out and studying for his GED. Maybe it’s not a bad idea.

Sam eats his sandwich in the stairwell. He accepts his first-ever C on the Charlemagne paper without reading the teacher’s notes. With thirty-seven minutes left in the school day, every muscle, every bone still aching, the last thing he wants to see is the asshole who’d administered the blows.

It’s emotional whiplash. One day they’re fucking, the next they’re fighting. Dean didn’t say anything to him all weekend except, “Get up.”

Didn’t apologize. Or try to make time to whisk him away to the bar. Nothing. Just violence.

Now, today, he gets outside and Dean has forgotten him. Or chosen not to show up. Or maybe it was their father’s idea to make Sam walk home as a continuation of his punishment.

He’ll probably spend the rest of his life punishing Sam. After all, this is Sam’s fault. They were in Sam’s bed. Sam let Dean kiss him and suck him and enter him time and again. His dad must hate him more than ever now.

It would be a good time to run away. But he should probably go home and get some of his clothes first. Sam exhausts all the profanity he remembers he’s supposed to meet Dean at the bar. So, at least he wasn’t abandoned, but all those staring, groping strangers are almost as unnerving as going home and facing their father.

Sam wanders the school grounds like a restless soul. The moment he sees Brock Fitzhugh running around the field, he turns on his heels and walks back the way he came. When someone grabs his sleeve, Sam nearly swings a fist.

Sally leaps back and squeaks, “Hey.”

Sam keeps walking and she keeps up. He used to think she was so beautiful. Now, the sight of her just makes him want to cry.

“I didn’t see Dean,” Sally says. “Was he here?”

Sam feels the look melting onto his face. Sally shakes her head in pity.

“Look, don’t get all gooey on me. My dad would never let me date a guy like your brother,” she says. “He’s just an amazing lay. But you already know that.”

Sam’s heart jerks to a halt and then restarts. His feet do the same. First, he speedwalks and then jogs away with Sally calling after him. She might be laughing. He’s not looking back.

If he’d been thinking, he’d have denied it or acted like he didn’t know what she was talking about. He may as well have openly admitted that he knows what an ‘amazing lay’ his brother is.

Jesus Christ.

If Sally knows, Brock knows. That’s why he’s leaving Sam in peace. He’s just waiting for the right moment to drop that bombshell in the hall.

Sam slips into the closest bathroom, pins his back against the door, breathing hard from the running and the horror.  
Cold water splashed on his steaming face helps none. For the first time in his life, he thinks of using his service arm for something other than protecting others. He could put it in his mouth and pull the trigger. Then, Brock and Sally can say whatever they want to whoever.

God. No wonder they call him a freak.

But why? Why would Dean tell her? Has this all been one giant long con to humiliate Sam so badly he wants to die? Was that Dean’s intention all along?

“Oh, God.”

He shoves his way into a stall and dry heaves.

“Sam?” Preston is in the next stall. “Are you okay?”

Does he know, too?

Sam’s stomach clenches, but it won’t send anything up. Preston knocks on his stall door. “Did something happen?”

Why won’t this kid fuck off somewhere? How can he possibly like Sam after …

Preston knocks again. “Dude, I don’t want to crawl under this door.”

After a couple of moments, Sam turns around and unlocks it. He must look like hell, because Preston winces.

“Was it Brock?”

“What? No. Fuck Brock.”

Preston grimaces, looks around as if someone else might have overheard Sam’s foul language. Sam doesn’t usually talk that way. He is just slowly, completely losing his mind. He has let his brother fuck him, repeatedly. And he liked it. Can’t even pretend he didn’t.

Now, said brother has told one of the most popular people in Sam’s school about it. Who knows? Sally might even have pictures.

Why does Dean hate him so much? Does he want Sam dead or mortified? The words have the same Latin root. Maybe, it’s all the same to Dean, as long as there’s suffering.  
Mission accomplished, big brother.  
Sam grips his head in both hands, claws at his scalp and wills himself not to cry. A single tear escapes and Sam scrubs it away.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Preston steps back. “I just… I thought you were coming to MindGames and you weren’t there, so… Then, I saw you in the hall and followed you in here. Are you crying?”

“No.”

It takes Sam a moment to piece together what Preston is saying.  
There’s no way he knows. He wouldn’t want anything to do with Sam if he knew. And if Sam is going to be more than the freak who gets fucked by his brother, he needs to pull himself together and do this. He nods several times, sniffing, wiping his face with his sleeve.

In Miss Jeffries’s room, Milo Ferguson and Kai Yoon are at the blackboard listing state capitols.

“Are you coming in?”

Sam chuckle is bitter and harsh. Why does everything have to be so fricking difficult?

Preston whispers, “Please?”

“Two more.” Miss Jeffries claps just in time for everyone to watch them enter together.

The corner of Milo’s lip curls up like an amused predator. He elbows Kai who simply watches Preston follow Sam and take the seat beside him.

***

If anyone had told Sam he would forget all his troubles for 93 minutes, he would have called it impossible. MindGames engages every molecule of his brain in a combination of theatrical improv, cross-discipline academia, and pure creativity. He’s never done anything like it and never had more fun in his life.

When the session is over, Miss Jeffries stands in front of the classroom.

“Show of hands, how many of you are planning on coming to Stanford?

Milo’s is the only hand that shoots up. Kai shrugs. His parents are discussing it.

“Well, we need at least four participants to compete.”

The girl, Cara, who won’t stop staring at Preston, raises her hand and asks for another flyer.

Preston explains that North Cross has been invited to compete in a MindGames tournament in California. It only costs $1500 per student.

Sam laughs outright. He already knew when Miss Jeffries said, “trip.” that he wouldn’t be part of it. The cost sounds like a cruel joke

As everyone is leaving the room, Miss Jeffries calls him aside. Sam doesn’t ask Preston to wait. The guy just hangs around, talking with Cara.

“Sam, you are a natural at this. Quick. Obviously well-read.”

“Thanks.”

“We could really use you at Stanford.”

“There’s no way.”

She puts a colorful brochure in his hand. “You know, we could see about a stipend…”

The money is only part of the problem. There’s no way Sam’s father is going to let him go across the country for some school trip. Maybe if Bobby could find a hunt in that area at the time, but it’s such a long shot, Sam doesn’t even bother stirring his hopes.

“It’s just not going to happen.”

He walks silently, only half-listening to Preston and Cara’s conversation about some TV show he’s never seen. They get along really well and maybe Sam was misreading Preston’s signals. What the hell does he know about crushes? The only person he’s ever been with was his own brother.

It’s already starting to get dark and plenty chilly, especially in Sam’s threadbare jacket. He doesn’t complain.

“Hey, Sam.”

All three of them turn to find Milo on his bike, circling like a shark.

“You and Preston want to come over to my place?”

Preston looks to Sam, clearly intrigued by the invitation.

“You can bring her, too.”

Sam keeps walking. If Milo pushes the point, it won’t be pretty.  
Apparently, the guy is not as stupid as he acts, because he rides away, laughing.

Sam and Preston drop Cara at her place. She waves goodbye to Sam and spends a full thirty seconds staring into Preston’s eyes like she’s waiting for something. The girl settles for a hug.

As they walk away, Sam asks, “So, you and Cara?”

“Me and Cara, what?”

Maybe on another day, he’d make a game out of it. But he drops the topic and walks Preston to his front door.

“You want to come in?”

Sam shrugs, still avoiding the inevitable return to his fucked-up family. “Thought we’d play some ball.”

“Dude, it’s cold.”

Entering Preston’s house means entering Preston’s bedroom.

“It’s not that bad,” Sam says.

The last time he was in some guy's bedroom…

“Plus, I’m hungry,” Preston says. “And I need to check in. I usually come right home from school.”

It’s time to stop being a douche and go inside. If anything goes weird, it’s not like Sam has to do anything he doesn’t want.  
All the stuff he did with Dean, he wanted it. Still wants it. Even if his father kills him for it.  
Because Sam is a nasty, dirty freak.

The house is warm and amazing. The aroma melts most of his inhibitions. Pres kisses his mother’s cheek and introduces her as Joyce-Ann. She’s got frizzy orange hair and a Radford sweatshirt. Her hands are in grey dishwater, but she greets Sam with, “Handsome.”

Awkward. “Thanks?”

“Mom,” Preston growls.

“Are you staying for dinner, Sam?”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“No imposition,” she says. “We’ll take the food off Preston’s plate.”

“In that case…”

They all laugh. Then, Preston leads the way to the simple living room where a man in a wheelchair mutes the TV.

“Colonel, this is Sam. Sam, my dad.”

“Ah.” The man offers his hand. “The infamous Sam Winchester.”

What on earth does that mean? Sam shakes.

“So, are you two going to eat in the treehouse or upstairs?”

“Do you need privacy?” JoyceAnn asks, standing under the arch to the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Mom!”

Preston’s father chuckles.

“This way for chili,” his mother says.

Mr. Scott nods and rolls toward her. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

“You too, sir.”

“I like this one, Pres.”

Preston grimaces and mouths an apology.

As cold as it is, he suggests they take the chili outside to the treehouse: an imperfect square room built into the center of a sprawling, ancient oak. Both boys have to duck beneath the 5-foot roof.

Preston places both of their bowls and soda cans on a tray and climbs up a ladder. Once Sam joins him, Preston pulls a rope and delivers their food to a trap door in the floor.

He lights all ten candles on the small table that also holds assorted camping accessories:  
A flashlight, matches, a multi-tool.

Grimy curtains hang in front of each of the four windows, blocking out the waning sunlight. For a ten-year-old, it’d be an awesome fort. Somehow, between the collection of low burned candles and the mattress, it’s crude, but also romantic.

Just being up here feels like a proposition. They’re sitting side by side on the mattress, shoulders touching. Rather than scoot away, but still terrified that Preston will try to kiss him, Sam launches a conversation, “Did you build this?”

Preston grins and nods, arms wrapped around his knees. Is it possible that Sam has no luck with girls because he’s only attractive to guys?  
Is that a thing?

Not that it’s awful if Preston likes him. It’d be better doing stuff with Preston than Milo. Plus, Dean is evil, and he has Sally.

“Me and my dad,” Preston says. “And Brock.”

Sam starts.

“Long time ago. Before the accident.”

Sam’s breath puffs out in a tiny cloud.

“Did you hear he just proposed to Sally?” Preston nods. “I bet his mom’s excited about that.”

His smile looks like it tastes bad. It suddenly dawns on Sam, subtle as fireworks.

“He’s not a bad person,” Preston says and picks up his bowl. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Preston.” It isn’t Sam’s business. “Do you… You ever have a crush on Brock?”

Preston gives a bitter chuckle in reply and looks close to dropping tears in his chili. He’s obviously out to his parents. If he made the mistake of coming out to Brock, or even worse, confessing his feelings… It’s not cool, but at least now it’s clear why Brock terrorizes him.

Sam shivers. “It’s fricking cold up here,”

“Drafty. Yeah. Got to fix that panel.” Preston points out the place where a board has completely fallen away. “So, if Miss Jeffries can get the money, you think you’ll go on the trip?”

“No way,” Sam says and digs into his chili. “My family doesn’t do stuff like that.”

Which is to say normal stuff, fun stuff or anything that doesn’t have to do with monsters. Preston doesn’t ask for more information and they eat the rest of their food in companionable silence.

***

When Sam leaves Preston’s, it’s with the same dilemma. Should he walk to the bar and meet Dean, or return the apartment and be stuck alone with their dad until Dean gets home? He makes it four blocks in the dark when a car crunches over the gravel behind him. Some stranger slowing down for what. He slings his backpack onto his belly, ready to grab his weapon, if necessary.

He’s not usually this jumpy, but everything’s so weird lately.

Dean hops out, drags Sam by his jacket and shoves him against the side of the truck.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Sam had forgotten the pain in his limbs, his trunk, his face. It all comes flooding back. He doesn’t even fight back. He lets Dean jack him up, and growl in his face, spit plastering to his cheek when he shouts, “I was waiting for you.”

“So you could tell Sally you fucked me again?”

“What?”

Dean releases Sam’s shirt and backs up. “Get in the fucking truck.”

“How could you do that?”

Sam’s tears quickly erupt into a wildly-thrown punch. It connects with Dean’s jaw and Sam throws another. Dean staggers, but doesn’t go down, doesn’t block. In fact, he cackles at the first few punches. Not that it doesn't hurt. Sam knows how to strike. Kind of hilarious seeing this saintly little dork lose his shit.

When he starts screaming, the laughter dries up.

"I hate you, Dean. I fucking hate you."

He bashes and Dean takes it. Always enjoys a bit of pain and this hurt is bone-splitting. Those words on that voice hurled against Dean’s face are far worse than the blows. It’s what he deserves and he takes it.

He takes every blows until Sam is exhausted and his stupid knuckles hurt. He shakes his right hand and wipes the snot from his nose with the left.

Dean spits out blood. “Better?”

It’s not better. Sam stands there, breathing hard, wincing at the pain in his hands and the gory mess he’s made of his brother’s beautiful face. He hangs his head and the tears fall torrential now. He couldn't stop them if he tried.

Dean walks around the truck, slides in and waits for Sam to quit sobbing and climb in.


	18. Chapter 18

Sam hops out. He’s hardly shut the door behind him when Dean hits the gas and speeds away. The truck disappears and Sam peers up at their apartment building. The Impala rests four spaces down. Dean has gone god knows where and left him alone with their father. 

Sam could stay in the stairwell all night but he’s tired and cold and achy and nothing sounds better than a hot shower, even if he has to pass John Winchester to get it. Like a troll protecting the greenest grass.

However, their father is in his bedroom. Sam has free passage to clean up and get ready for bed. MindGames had proven so useful in forgetting about Dean and everything that Sam gladly lets his mind wander back to the exercises, the activities, the interactions. Back to Preston’s unbridled laughter when Milo and Cara did their best (poor) impression of a tango. Usually, the kid has a cute way of covering his face and hiding his amusement, but when he finds something hilarious, he completely loses it. 

One good thing about being with Preston is remembering there’s more in the world than meanness and evil and brutality. Sam’s brain is blessedly occupied until he reaches the shower.

The moment he slides under the water, all he can think of is Dean’s hands. Instantly, he’s hard and hating himself for it. He turns the water up by tiny increments until he’s standing under an unbearably hot spray, slowly lathering his chest, his stomach, his pubes - without touching himself.

He’s going to have to wash. He’s going to have to jerk off and it’s going to be to Dean. As much as Sam likes Preston, it’s not like that. For the first time, though, he really wishes it was.

It’s always been Sam’s custom to take care of this business in the shower, with soap and halfway convincing himself that it’s a rigorous washing. This is far from the first time he’s done so thinking of Dean. It’s just the first time it’s not a fantasy, but a memory. And the first time that Sam’s eyes have gotten misty in the process. He’s never going to be able to shower again without thinking of his brother. No doubt, it’s all part of Dean’s torture.

Sam speeds through everything, dries and dresses in sweats and a tee. Hoping to find the place quiet, he creeps to the kitchen for a glass of water. He should have drunken his fill in the shower.  
His father is seated at the kitchen table with a beer. Without looking up, he says, “Have a seat, son.”

Sam floods cold and braces. 

Their father went the whole weekend without commenting on what he’d seen. A torturous miracle, that makes Sam even more anxious around the old man than usual.

“Bobby says you’re doing well at that school.”

That’s not what Sam expected, but John is warming up. It’s not often he sits down and has a talk with his sons. Or maybe he does with Dean, but Sam wouldn’t know.

How does a man broach the subject of his boys fucking? And how will the younger son respond? Sam holds his breath to find out.

“That’s good,” John says. “That’s real good.”

He stops for a long slog of his beer. 

“You got a good mind for research. Making those connections. Good focus. Unlike your brother.”

Sam warms at the comparison. This is it. 

“Dean’s a hell of a sharp fighter, but his mind’s all over the place,” John says. “I bet you’re wondering why I agreed to this school year.”

This is still not the conversation Sam has been anticipating. His father sets his bottle on the table and suggests Sam grab one for himself. 

Sam has had access to beer and liquor all his life and he’ll never be more than a cursory, social drinker. It might have something to do with the time when he was 13 and Dean forced him to chug an entire bottle, all the while hooting and cackling while Sam choked and sputtered the bubbles through his nose. 

Sam’s true feelings about beer are just one more way he’s different from the rest of his family.

“Ripped up my arm pretty bad in Scottsdale,” John says rolling his shoulder.

There’s no visible evidence of an injury. Sam’s father has on a long-sleeved Henley open at the neck so that his salted pepper chest hairs sprout through. Sam has seen his father laid on his back with blood gushing from various wounds and he still thinks of the man is impervious. An impenetrable fortress. 

Yet, here John is admitting to a weakness. Does he want Sam to look at it? Fix the sutures? That’s usually Dean’s job, but Sam knows how from watching his brother.

Where the hell did Dean go? Is he pissed at Sam for hitting him? Of course. It’s not like they were sparring. Sam lost his temper, like some kind of animal. His nostrils flare, guts roil. He had every right to be mad his brother and had every right to knock his lights out for this whole stunt. Still, Sam feels bad about it. Worse, he’s terrified that when Dean comes home, he’ll be the same old asshole idiot he was before, or something worse.

What could be worse than telling Sally? If Dean makes fun of Sam for being in love with him. That would be unbearable. 

“I’m going to give it a little rest,” John says. “Then, there’s a situation up in Pittsburgh. In the meantime, you’re going to hit the books about a skinwalker infestation. Not just one or two. It’s looking like a whole nest has sprouted up there.”

Their father has never explained how hunting skinwalkers or vampires has anything to do with catching the demon who killed his mother. Then again, Sam has never had the chance to ask. This would be a chance, but his mouth is dry with a certainty that the slightest argument will result in his father asking why he let his brother stick it in him.

“And then we’re going to head out,” John says. “Probably tomorrow.”

The first MindGames presentation is tomorrow. Sam is already going to let down Miss Jeffries. Preston.  
Plus his dad could use an additional day to heal.

“I’ve got school –”

“Yeah. You’re gonna miss a little,” John says. “A week or so.”

Sam sits back in his chair, gutted worse than when Dean was pummeling his stomach. He concentrates on not freaking out. His father doesn’t respond well to that. 

“You know, you’re getting to an age to get your priorities straight,” John says. “I know you like school, but this hunt requires all hands.”

Sam forces the hot streams of air to flow evenly through his nose. No tears. No whining. He’s never told his father no. Never contradicted the old man in any way.

“Why don’t you go get packed?”

Sam nods, battling a wicked brew of emotions. 

“What was that?”

“Yes, sir.”

***

Dean has been to Sally’s house once. He followed her home the day after Sam introduced them and popped up like a grinning Jack-in-the-Box. She’d walked over to his truck, a curvy, big-eyed baby offering all her candy.

It’s obscenely huge: ten windows to the front. Pillars on the wraparound porch. Four-car driveway. The kind of house Dean would love to blockade and torch, just to hear the screams and sirens. Sam used to hide from sirens when he was little. Crawl right under the bed in whatever motel they were staying. Dean gets more joy out of that sound than an accident lawyer. Something about the pitch or tone.

Sally’s old man answers the door, looks Dean over, nose curled like he might vomit on his own Oxfords. He might be allergic to leather jackets. Or the scrapes and cuts from Sam’s little attack. Dean made no attempt to clean himself up. He’s not here for Daddy.

He doesn’t say a word, turns and strolls back to his truck. She’ll get the message.

It only takes twenty minutes for Sally-baby to come prancing around from the back of the house. She might have snuck out of the kitchen. Maybe leapt from a first-story window. She’s so easy. Why does Dean have to want Sam? Everything is so difficult with him. And in the end, Dean can’t really have Sam. That whole thing is just a big freaking heartache.

It’s dark, but enough light bleeds off the house to see Sally’s broad grin - so grateful for someone to come and shatter her fairytale for a moment. Well, she’s gonna love this shit. 

Dean kicks off the truck, takes three long strides, and grabs the bitch by the throat.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Appropriate fear widens her eyes. Her frail hands wrap around Dean’s wrist. She gasps like a fish. This is not foreplay, honey. This is the end of days.

“Who did you tell what?”

She sputters and tries to shake her head.

“I know you did, you little cunt.” 

Dean shoves her into the winter-dead grass and straddles her chest. He could rape her, slice her throat and leave the mess for the gardener to find.

Sally doesn’t even yell. Maybe that’s what she wants. Spiteful whore.

Then again, maybe she’s done him a favor.

Dean sure as hell wants everyone to know. He’d been in ninth heaven at the bar with all those dudes shouting how hot he and Sam are together. Dean didn’t much like being called a twink, but he loved swapping spit with his brother in front of God and the devil and everyone else.

Who gives a shit what the nerds at Sam’s school know? If it becomes a problem, they leave. The only person Dean answers to is his father. And so long as he doesn’t try to send Sam to that GD camp, Dean will take whatever punishment John dishes. He’s still waiting for it. Ready.

He stands and jerks Sally to her feet. She’s trembling now. It is cold and the ditzy little wench forgot her coat. She’s not getting Dean’s jacket.

Sally follows him to his truck, he starts the engine and pulls away from the princess’ paradise. She massages her neck, clearing her throat. That voice box will be sore for a couple of days.

“I didn’t tell anyone except Sam,” she says, rasping. “And he already knows.”

“What did you say?”

“I was just teasing.”

“Why?”

“You have to admit, it’s kind of…”

Dean waits to hear what word she’ll use.

“Atypical.”

A diplomatic choice. 

“You think I’m crazy,” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says without deliberation. “Don’t you?”

“But you like it.”

“Some of it. You’re scary. I like that.”

Dean tries on that adjective and finds it fits well. He drives with his hands at 10 and 2, elbows locked. Scary.

“I take it your boyfriend isn’t scary.”

“Fiancé.”

Dean glances over. She’s not kidding. “When did that happen?”

“Yesterday, and no,” Sally says. “He’s a perfect gentleman.”

“Well, good for you both. What are you, 17? And you want to get married?”

If Dean could marry Sam, he’d do it. Then again, fuck a contract. They’re blood. Nothing’s tighter than that.

“Not now,” Sally explains. “After college. I mean, it was going to happen anyway. Just...he gave me a ring. Our families had dinner. It’s all official now.”

Dean would buy Sam a ring. That’s actually a good idea. Make him swear.

“Why do you do it?” Sally asks. “With Sam? You two just get horny and—”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Poor baby looked like he was going to cry. Are you sure he likes it?”

“Fuck you, Sally.”

“I’m just saying. He looked like grilled shit in school today. Does your dad beat him or something?”

No. That was Dean. No. Not true. Nobody beats Sam. If he doesn’t defend himself well, he suffers accordingly and it makes him a better warrior. Makes it so he can survive.

“Mind your fucking business.”

This is the most words he’s spoken to this female. Maybe any female. 

Sally starts, “Brock is…”

Dean didn’t ask. Doesn’t want to know. He turns on the radio, but he can still hear her.

“He’s never even touched me,” Sally says. “I mean we kiss, like my grandparents. I’ve slept with six other guys on the team.”

“Does he know that?”

She shrugs. “I don’t think he cares as long as nobody talks about it.”

That’s a different approach. If Dean discovers Sam so much as looking at anyone else… When those fuckers at the bar checked out his ass, the pride of ownership blends with a murderous thrill. Complicated thing, being Dean Winchester in love.

He’s feeling magnanimous and takes Sally for a burger. They sit in the parking lot, Dean telling her about his plan to mix drinks while Sam goes to college. It’s a fairytale, but she listens.

“You know what I want,” Sally says. “I want someone to look at me the way you looked at Sam in that theater. Is that asking so much?”

Dean holds out a palm. “Let me see that.” 

Sally drops the ringed hand into it. 

“Is that big?” 

“It was his great aunt’s. Irreplaceable.”

Dean knows nothing about these things. Would Sam want a rock like that? Where would he get one? What would it cost?

When he pulls up in front of Sally’s castle, she slings an arm over his neck and pecks his lips. 

“Can I come in?”

She looks up at the house and back at him. “We could do it in here.”

“I don’t… I won’t break anything. I’ll be quiet, I swear.”

Sally deliberates for another minute. Then, she tells him to meet her at the back door. Dean stands there in the dark, waiting. If she leaves him hanging, he’ll break in and steal her mother’s silverware.

But she lets him and leads him, shoeless, to her bedroom like a pair of cat burglars. 

It’s about as Dean expected: canopy bed under a white veil. All of her decor is white. Lace. No ballerina on a music box, but a vanity with a heart-shaped mirror. Shania Twain posters.

Sally tells him to wash his face in her en-suite bathroom. He obeys without thinking much of it. Does feel good to get the caked blood out of his nostrils.

He returns and sits on the bench. Opens her jewelry box for kicks. Jackpot. Maybe. Dean has no idea what Sam would like. Vegetables were a hit. Jewelry might be completely off base.

Sally slides onto the seat beside him, chooses a tiny silver ring with a dolphin on it and slips it onto Dean’s pointer finger. It jams at the first knuckle but he admires it.  
Does Sam give a shit about dolphins?

None of the rings fit, but Sally decks each one of his fingers with a different choice. She hangs a pair of earrings over the tops of his ears, and fastens three necklaces around his throat. The little girl grins, enjoying dressing her dolly.

Would Dea’s life be any different if he’s had a little sister instead of Sam? Would he want to fuck her? Would that be worse?

When Sally opens a stick of lip gloss and threatens him with it. Dean leans away and knocks the thing out of her hand. She purses her lips, chooses another color.

“Play nice.”

With a heavy sigh, he lets her slather the waxy stuff over his lips. 

“God, your mouth,” Sally says as she works. “Do like this.”

Dean mimics the way she rolls her lips in and out. He sits still while she applies blush and blue stuff to his eyelids. Then, he turns to face the drag queen in the mirror. The image is not as disgusting as it should be. His eyes linger for one long second and then looks away and swipes his face with a palm. The makeup smears, but doesn't clear.

He drops himself onto her bed, studying the rings on his hand. Sally crawls beside him, both of them on their backs under the canopy. What if he’d been born the girl? Would his father make him hunt? Would he still want to? Would he want some idiot jock to give him a ring, or some idiot roughneck to shove him against a wall and make him choke on a dick? He doesn’t have to be a girl to want that.  
One day, Sam will learn what Dean wants.

“Maybe I only want Sam because it’s wrong,” he says without thinking. 

“You think so?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you think he wants you?”

Dean looks at her. Never got a good answer to that question. “Maybe for the same reason you do.”

“Dean, I only want you because you’re hot, and kind of crazy.”

“Well…” A cool smirk goes a long way to concealing disappointment. 

Dean couldn’t care less why this chick is attracted to him, but if that’s all it is with Sam…  
Of course, it is. What else would there be?

“Would that be so awful?” Sally asks, toying with a button on his flannel. “I mean besides the fact that it’s completely illegal, you and Sam are a total smoke show.”

“Thank you, Sally.” Dean plucks her hand away.

“Seriously. Do you think you two would ever... Like, I could come over to the apartment. And you take me from behind while I suck Sam off?”

Dean was on board right up until he imagined someone else’s mouth on his brother. Then he flared hot and began peeling off Sally’s rings. He stands, tossing them at the box. The necklaces break as he rips them from around his neck, pearls clicking noisily as they scatter around the room. 

“Dean.”

“Stay away from my brother.”

His reflection looks like the crazy-ass Joker from Batman. That's about right. Dean sees himself to the door.


	19. Chapter 19

Old Dean is back, and so are his old tricks. Came in late, crashed on the bed, face first, fully dressed, boots on. He’s laying in a puddle of drool on his pillow. The acid stink of strawberry screams off him.

Sam cannot go on a hunt with his brother. He can barely even look at Dean, or think his name without wanting to cry. In this mindset, he’s rooting for the monsters to take them both out. He’s compromised in a way he can’t explain to his dad. 

John knows, and for some reason, still hasn’t skinned them both alive. He knows they were in bed together. He doesn’t know that Sam has these feelings.

Whether this was Dean’s idea of funny or just a way to prove his superiority. Who can even comprehend the inner workings of a modern Neanderthal? Maybe someday Sam will hate his brother a little less. Maybe he’ll even laugh at the whole insane thing and it’ll be this inside joke.  
Maybe not.  
One thing’s for sure, Sam is never letting his brother touch him again. In any way. Making that choice is all the power he has. 

An hour before daylight, he lifts his duffel onto one shoulder, backpack onto the other and creeps out of the room. If his dad is awake, Sam will say he’s loading the car. But the apartment is dark and the other door is shut. 

Sam leaves a two-page report on the table: how to deal with an infestation of skin walkers.

He slips from the building into the crisp, overcast morning. He zips up his jacket, blows between his hands and starts walking. 

An hour later and only mildly frostbitten, he climbs into Preston’s treehouse and unloads his duffel. On a whim, he pulls the pistol from his backpack and buries it down between his socks at the bottom of the bag. For a change, he’s going to be like a normal kid and not be armed all the time. The only time he ever needs firearms is when he and his family go looking for trouble.

He keeps his Bowie knife, because training dies hard. 

***

Dean rolls over and blinks at Sam’s empty bed. He suspects, at first, that their dad drove him to school. Then, Dean finds their dad in the kitchen counting down the minutes until it’s time to hit the road. 

“What the hell is Sam still doing asleep?”

Dean shakes his head. 

“I thought you were driving him to school.”

“I was, but he… apparently—”

“Well, we don’t have time for this shit,” John says. “Pack up, coffee up, we roll in twenty.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

Sam spends second period sitting on a toilet in the boys’ room, reading. Can not look at Sally’s face.  
Some guys come in and smoke and laugh about some girl whose bra they popped, but Sam keeps silent and the 45 minutes passes pretty quickly.

For lunch, he goes into Miss Jeffries’ and knocks on the open door. Preston, seated at her desk, looks up from whatever he’s doing and smiles. 

“Hey. Is she not—”

“Copies,” Preston says and begins folding a sheet of paper. 

Sam takes a few cautious steps inside. There’s sort of a weird vibe coming off Preston and he only stopped by to see if he could help set up anything for the MindGames presentation at the end of the day. And to avoid Brock. That idiot hasn’t caused any trouble since his run-in with Dean - when idiots collide - but it’s too cold to eat in the courtyard, and he just wants some peace.

Sam places his bag on a desk, slides into the chair and drops his head it. Even five minutes of sleep would be something. 

But no. No sleep. Preston slips into the desk next to Sam’s and watches until he sits up. 

“I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay.”

Preston looks at the folded paper in his hand. Just a square. Sam taught himself origami from a library book when he was eight. Preston would either think it’s cool or lame. That’s how it is with origami. There’s no middle ground. 

Preston offers the square. 

“What’s that?”

Preston shrugs.

Sam accepts and unfolds it, revealing a Marvel-worthy, full-color drawing of SuperSam. There’s no other way to describe it. A guy with bulging muscles (and package) with a blue, shimmering cape flying behind him. His hands are on his hips, one booted foot is on a guy whose face is turned away, but the villain is blond like Brock. SuperSam’s face is Sam’s face, in caricatured detail, complete with dimples. Only his hair is longer, like maybe the way Sam would wear his hair if his dad let him get away with it. He doesn’t recall telling the kid he’d grow it out, but maybe he did.

Below the drawing, an inscription:

I feel safe being myself with you  
\- P

“Listen. I’ve never done this, so if it’s weird…” Preston sighs to his dirty shoes. “Would you ever … want to … maybe, get something to eat. I mean, I don’t know. I sound stupid.”

“No. I mean, yeah. You’re not… I’d like that.”

“Really?”

Sam nods. It’s food. Preston is asking whether Sam wants to get food.  
Of course, he hears the subtext in the guy’s trembling voice.  
No one’s ever asked him out before, or even shown the slightest interest, other than Milo (which, yuck) and Dean (which, fuck).

Preston is cool and he’s certainly not trying to make Sam into a fool. People already think they hooked up. And anything would be better than the fiasco with Dean. Maybe there’s even some principle by which your second covers over your first.

It’s not like they’d hold hands in the hallway or anything. They’d just have each other and they’d know. And if Brock comes anywhere near Preston, Sam will bust his skull. Plain as that. 

So, it’s just an invitation to eat, but it’s the best thing that’s happened to him in days. Finally, someone and something that makes him feel happy and hopeful instead of weird and awful. Why not just go ahead and feel good about it?

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

***

“Sir.”

Dean keeps tromping down the hall.

“Sir. You have to sign in.”

High schools are always a damn labyrinth. What are they training kids to become, lab rats?  
And all the classes are empty. What the hell is this? The longer Dean searches, the louder his bootsteps become. The sicker he grows of being in a school. 

Finally, after looking around upstairs and finding bupkiss, he follows a thunder of applause to the auditorium back on the first floor. If Sam’s not in there, Dean is going to start shouting. 

***

Sam and Preston are the most recent additions to the troupe, but the crowd loves them. They got the most laughs throughout the assembly. Sam didn’t think he’d like being on stage, but when he’s teamed up with Preston for a scene, it’s easy and fun. Pres is smart and quick and has this wicked, dry sense of humor.

When the presentation is done, the team lines up for the final bow. Milo on Sam’s right, Preston on his left. Miss Jeffries shouts into the microphone once more, “North Cross High School, your MindGames troupe.”

And everybody goes nuts. It’s actually amazing. They take a lopsided bow and people just keeps clapping. Preston smiles and Sam slings an arm over his shoulder. The kid goes stiff, but you know what, to hell with every one else. Sam needed a win and he got one. 

He leans over and whispers, “You were awesome.”

Preston grins and Sam kisses his cheek. It wasn’t premeditated and it’s not like it’s a French kiss or anything. Just two lips on one cheek. But the moment he pulls away, the shift in the audience is palpable. A lot of people are perfectly silent, jaws dropped, hands frozen mid-clap. A small number jump to their feet and applaud. Sam’s heart is beating in his teeth.

***

To kill or not to kill.  
Dean’s blood boils in his veins, heats his face to unsustainable temperatures. Whoever that ugly kid is, Dean could take him out with one blow. He could pull his pistol right now, put a bullet between his eyes and see how Sam feels about kissing him when the brains are gushing out the back of his skull. 

So, this is what Sam had to do after school? Fucking two-timing little shit. 

Dean takes one step back, because his only other option is slaughter. He turns, strides back down the hall, past the main office and the old bitch squeaking about the sign-in. The wind smacks his face as he walks down the pavement, climbs into his father’s car and mumbles, “He ain’t here.”

“What?”

“They said he didn’t…” Dean doesn’t really lie to his father and he’s choked up. Got to pull it together. “You know what? We don’t need him.”

“What are you talking about, Dean?”

All Dean knows is that if he comes within three feet of Sam right now that he’s going to wring that little bastard’s throat. 

“We don’t need him, sir,” he repeats. “Can we just drive, please? I’m sick of this fucking town.” 

***

School’s over. The auditorium is clear, and so is Sam’s head again. Somewhat. Thankfully, Preston didn’t hang around. In fact, he was one of the first people out of the room. Chances are pretty good he’s never going to talk to Sam again. So much for getting something to eat.

Moron Sam who completely misread all his signals and kissed the guy in public. So, yeah. Dean’s prank: the gift that keeps giving. 

Sam is an oversexed, weirdo lunatic now. And he thought it would be a good idea to crash in Preston’s treehouse. If the guy found him up there, he’d call the cops and call him a stalker. That would only be fair. 

When there’s no further excuse to delay and he’s pretty sure most everyone is gone, Sam steps outside into flurries and brutal windchill. Just another reason Preston’s treehouse is out of the question. But he can’t go home, either. He’s still too chicken to face Dean and too livid to fight at his side. No way he’s going to Milo’s. That leaves only one alternative. 

****

They’re ten miles into Pennsylvania before Dean speaks up. He’s been practicing his lines for the last hour and if he doesn’t spit them out, he’ll choke on them. 

“Dad, you remember when I went to Chautauqua?”

The old man doesn’t respond. His eyes are on the road. Of course, he remembers dropping Dean’s skinny ass off in the middle of the wilderness with two guys and a pack of miscreant kids.

“If you’re planning to send Sam…”

It’s all Dean’s got the words for and even that confession scrapes his throat on the way out. It’s more than he’s had voice to say in the four years since he was up there. Chautauqua.

Part of him wants Sam to go. Suffer. Then they’ll really be brothers. When pampered bright-star Sammy crawls out the other side of that tunnel, see if he still thinks he’s better than Dean then. See if he’d still rather have one of his fucking nerds.

But underneath the hurt and betrayal, he needs to protect Sam. Needs to be sure.  
Dean had deserved what he got. Never argued otherwise.  
Sam was just going along.  
Those same kids probably aren’t even up there anymore. It’ll be some new gang of hoodlums acting out an x-rated version of Lord of the Flies.

“Dad, what happened... With Sam. It’s not his fault. And it won’t happen again.”

“You need to get your head out of your ass and in this hunt, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

As soon as he opens the door, Marco’s arms are wide as his smile. “Sam! Bitter cold out there, isn’t it?”

His big warm hug makes up for the chill. It’s no wonder Dean loves this place. Nobody hugs them like that. Being in a small town bar is like belonging somewhere. Cheers isn’t kidding.

Still, when the doors open for customers he’s going to have to hit the road or go upstairs, because he’s a minor. He’ll help Marco tidy up and then, he’ll make himself scarce. Maybe the guy will even let him crash on the couch tonight. He can make up any kind of excuse.

“Good day at school?” Marco asks.

“Mmm.”

“You know, I went to North Cross?”

Not only did Sam not know that, but he didn’t realize Marco knew where he went to school. What else did Dean tell?

“Mr Bain still teach Spanish over there?”

“Not sure.” Sam listlessly pushes the broom.

“He’s great, man. Told me to travel the world. Smartest guy I ever knew. You got a favorite teacher?”

Why doesn’t this guy ever shut up? What is with all the interrogation?

“Everything okay, Sam?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Can’t go home. Has no friends. This is Dean’s place, not his. If he says much more, Sam will be crying. 

A few guys show up early and Marco lets them in because the snow is really coming down. They shake off the flakes, complain about the weather and grump their way to the bar.

Dale, a former solider and current UPS worker (which Sam knows from a previous conversation), slides over to the corner where Sam has been trying to remain inconspicuous. A cordial handshake turns into Dale’s hand resting over Sam’s on the bar. Sam casually slips away. Dale follows, gripping his wrist.

“Where’s your little boyfriend?” 

Sam could easily break the guy’s index finger and send a message. He forces a smile and tries, in vain, to gently extricate his hand again. Marco feigns a need to clean a spill between them and Dale lets go. “Where is Dean, anyway? He was supposed to come by.”

“Yeah, our da—”

“That runt,” Dale grunts, actually saving Sam from saying the very wrong thing. “Got a lot of attitude and nothing to back it up. Just a fucking pretty boy with his asshole probably stretched six ways from Sunday. You let me know if you ever want to try a real man, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t comment. If Dale ever wants to find out what kind of boy Dean is, it won’t be pretty.

This would be a good time to go upstairs. He’s already decided he’s not going home, but Sam doesn’t want to be alone in the tiny office, poring over his embarrassment over kissing Preston and his mortification about everything with Dean. He decides to hang around downstairs until the bar is officially open.

There are six guys at the counter when a seventh enters. This man isn’t grousing against the weather. He’s prepared. Ski mask. All in black.

Sam stands upright, skin prickling like the breath before a hunt begins.  
The guy stands by the door, not speaking despite Marco’s typical southern greeting. 

“It still coming down like a bitch out there?” He asks to no reply. “You going to take that thing off and let me get you a drink, pal?”

Even before the metal flashes, before the first shot blare, Sam’s body slips into hyperdrive. He dives behind the bar, yanks Marco to the floor. Too late. Marco takes the first bullet. Direct blow to the neck. 

It’s no time to panic or shut down. 

More shots blast, deafening and approaching. The gunman is getting closer. Guys are screaming. The glass behind the bar shatters and rains around Sam where he’s applying pressure to the gushing wound on Marco’s throat. Hands, forearms, the floor covered in slick, warm blood.

The gunman is firing less frequently, no longer at random, but with deliberation.  
Ten seconds. Fifteen tops. He’ll be at the bar, pointing the barrel over. It’s time to make a move. 

Sam takes one breath, two bottles. He leaps onto the bar, throws one at the guys head, disorienting him. Throws the second when he is within striking range. It connects with the guy’s face causing him to stumble and drop his weapon. Sam leaps onto the perp’s chest, grabs the gun and puts two bullets into his cranium. Then, a third for good measure. 

When he stands, huffing like a steam engine, everyone else is down. Some of them are writhing and groaning. By initial assessment, two are already dead, another won’t make it. Then, there’s Marco.  
Sam’s pulse pounds in his skull as he kneels on the attacker’s chest and peels up the mask. 

He falls back onto his ass, crabwalks backwards a few yards before scrambling to his feet.

Why? Why why why did he do that? Why did he look?

“Fuck.”

Breath stopping in his throat, he dashes behind the bar, dials 911

“What’s your emergency?”

“There’s,” he can hardly huff out the words. “It’s a… shooting. Please.”

He gives the address, drops the phone, leaves it off the hook, grabs his jacket and backpack. Can’t be here or leave any evidence.


	20. Chapter 20

Sam stumbles through the dark like a blind boy knocked off his orbit. The face behind the mask, or what was left of it is burned behind his eyes. Hail pelts him. Ice in his marrow. He walks hurried and hunched against the wind and cold. 

The only thing that could warm him is Dean’s touch. Sam’s brother could save him from the inside out. Even his cruelest smile would give him a reason to live. Make him stop shaking.

Sam is lost without his brother and acutely aware that he never had him. 

He returns to the apartment to more darkness, more cold. His father and his brother are gone. They’ve left him. What if they never come back? The one godawful, forsaken place in this world where he belongs is with his family, and they’re gone.


	21. Chapter 21

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean whispers, stroking his brother’s back. “You’re all right. That’s all that fucking matters.”

Dean forbids himself to cry over a stranger. Marco was a stranger. Bartending was a pipe dream.  
Hunting is the only future he has. Hunting, and Sam. 

Four hours ago, Dean and his dad had arrived at the outpost in Pittsburgh. John picked up a note from the table and before he put it down, told Dean to get back in the car. 

Driving 30 mph above the speed limit was not like their dad. John Winchester only flouted the law when it was absolutely necessary. He hustled and forged IDs to survive, but generally, he respects the rules.

Flying down route 81 in the silence and dark, Dean finally worked up the nerve to ask, “Dad, what is it?”

It took John half hour to answer, “There’s been a shooting.”

Dean’s body tingled, went numb, hot and cold all at once. The only reason John would ever turn around was that something had happened to Sam.

“How do you know?”

“I got eyes, Dean. Do you think I’d ever leave you boys and not leave eyes?”

Did that mean there was always someone spying on them? From the time Dean was eight and his dad left him alone with little Sam, was there always some Hunter or Neighbor with the task of keeping an eye on the Winchester boys?

Dean has gotten up to his share of trouble, plus Sam’s. With all the scrapes, and foul situations, and poor choices someone must have ratted him out, but his father had never given away his secret network before now. 

“What’s going on?” Dean aimed for shouting, but his voice was more of a squeal. “Is everything OK?”

John’s reply: “Nothing we can do but get there.”

Not exactly comforting. 

Dean considered jumping into the driver seat and slamming his father’s foot to the floor. Instead, he clutched the door handle, clenched his jaw and focused on breathing.

A shooting?  
Could only have been in Sam’s school.  
Maybe Sam had a teacher as a Big Bad, which would put him on the right end of the gun.  
Nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine. 

They entered town by the wrong exit for home. John drove directly to the bar.  
Cops. Ambulances. Caution tape. Dean’s heart palpitating out of control.

He jumped out of the car before his father could park and tried to burst onto the scene, explaining that his little brother was in there. An officer stopped him with both hands on Dean’s chest and only avoided a right hook, because John clutched Dean’s arms to his side as he was about to swing. He shoved Dean aside and conducted an unnervingly calm interrogation, revealing that all the victims were either in the hospital or the morgue.

The shiver ended in Dean’s jellied knees as he physically forced himself not throw up. John grabbed him by the arm and manhandled him back to the car.

“What the hell is wrong with you? That is not protocol.”

Dean sat in the passenger seat staring straight ahead, mind blank and reeling. What was the protocol if Sam was dead? There was no protocol. There was nothing.

John tried the morgue first.

Dean couldn’t comprehend the easy precision with which his father put on suit and tie, strode into the building with his spine straight and head upheld. Meanwhile, Dean spent the next half hour in the passenger's seat, disintegrating.

John climbed into the car, closed the door and shook his head. A half sob, half gasp escaped Dean’s lips. He couldn’t even be embarrassed by his involuntary reaction, despite his father’s wordless judgment.

Sam wasn’t in the hospital either, which made matters completely unbearable. Not that he wanted to find his brother injured, but Sam missing was going to drive him insane.

They sat in the car and pieced together the facts. Or rather, John went over the facts. Dean was useless.

What they knew:  
Immediately after school, Sam went to the bar.  
An hour later, a masked man walked in and opened fire.  
There were eight victims. Four dead, four in critical condition.  
The dead men included the assailant.  
Nobody saw Sam leave.

For lack of another plan, John decided to retreat to the apartment and set up a post from which to receive further information.

Dean found his baby brother laying in his bed, just like he is now, curled up like an unborn baby. Sweating, shivering, whimpering from time to time. Dean removes his shoes, covers Sam with the blanket from his bed and sits here stroking clammy, cool skin.

If he could make himself leave, he’d go buy some vegetables and tea. When Sam was little, he was always so entranced with the tea bags they’d find in a cabin or motel.  
Fucking tea.

When Sammy was little, Dean used to do things. Bad things to him. Dean deserves all the bad that ever happened to him. Sam doesn’t deserve this. 

“It’s OK, buddy.” Dean kisses his brother’s ear. “Everything‘s OK.”

Sam is everything. And he’s OK.

***

The following morning, John stands in the frame, beside the door still hanging from its hinges. His arms are crossed and he’s wearing an expression that could be concern, but might be disdain. The only thing more amazing than Dean asking him to bring tea was that John did it. Along with milk, honey, a bottle of quadrupled whiskey. It’s an approximate recipe, vaguely familiar nightmare remedy from their youth.

Sam has gotten up once, to pee. But he hasn’t spoken, won’t raise his eyes or eat.  
Mostly, he lays in the bed staring at the wall.

“Did he say what happened?” John asks. 

Dean’s impatience with his father won’t help the situation. He wishes the old man would fix the door and scram, but what would be the point? There are spies watching them all the time. There might be a pair of binoculars trained in from the apartment across the street. If Dean dares to curl up behind his brother and hold him, somebody could be watching. Their father, some stranger, somebody who knows who they are and all the reasons it’s wrong.

John rolls his eyes at the uneaten plate of cold peas and canned ham that Sam refuses to touch.

“Well, if he’s not gonna go back to school, there’s no point in us hanging around here. What the hell is the —”

“He’s going to be OK, Dad. Just needs some time.”

John humphs and finally goes away.

Dean has pieced together a theory of events in the bar: some gay-hater fed up with throwing bricks. Sam’s training and instincts kicked in and he engaged the guy, ended the massacre.

The only explanation for Sam’s shock is Marco. If Dean could afford to shut down, maybe he would too, but that’s not ever been available to him. He can’t panic, breakdown, cry, feel anything. If he takes even a moment to entertain some weak emotion, it’ll be the end of him. Maybe the end of Sam. Frailty will become the new him. It will swallow him whole until he’s nothing but a snot-nosed four-year-old whose mommy just got burned up. 

He can’t afford it. But Sammy. Maybe he even saw Marco go down.  
That’s not something Dean would’ve wanted to see. Fuck the mother fucker who did this. Dean should have been there to end it himself.

***

Sam sits up that evening. He drinks their father’s brew, grimaces as he swallows, but still doesn’t speak. He gives the cup back to Dean who sets it on the table and sits on the bed tapping Sammy’s knee.

“You feeling a little better?”

Sam faces the wall.

“Okay. I’m going to head out for a little while,” Dean says. 

He’s been holed up 48 hours, has barely left Sam’s side. This needs doing.

“If you need something, Dad’s in the other room. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

The shake of Sam’s head is barely imperceptible. It doesn’t make sense that this is affecting him so badly. He’s killed before. Never fully appreciated it, but this is not the first and it won’t be the last. 

Then again, this is the same boy who’d spend half the night after a hunt defending the monsters they’d just killed. He was never crazy enough to say it out loud to their dad, but Sam would always compare vamps and werewolves to hungry farmers. He could understand exterminating demons whose only goal was creating chaos, but Sam was always emotional about killing the creatures who used to be human. The ones who’re just trying to eat. Vamps and werewolves are hungry, can’t help it, no worse than sharks and lions... 

Dean was able to convince them that just because sharks and lions want to eat people doesn’t mean we have to let them.

Did he feel the same compassion for the hateful bastard who’d broken into the bar and killed Marco? It was beyond Dean’s comprehension. He and his brother were cut from entirely different fabric.

***

Dean sits in his truck outside of the school. When he sees the kid, he’s not going to lose his shit. He’s going to be cool. 

Sam needs to see a friendly face, even if it’s an ugly one. He’s never seen his brother so happy as standing with that boy. That fact corrodes his belly. It ain’t easy accepting that he’s not all Sam needs, but that’s how it is. Dean can make his brother’s toes curl, his eyes roll back in his head, but when had Sam ever smiled like that and looked so carefree?

Dean hops out, leans on the hood of his truck, ankles crossed, smoke dangling from his mouth. He channels Jimmy Dean or the Duke, because his insides feel like Jell-O. 

He’d been so busy watching the front doors for the ugly kid that he didn’t notice Sally until she was damn near on him. In a surprising and uncharacteristic public show of emotion, she flings her arms around his neck. Dean pulls back and finds her sobbing. He gives her shoulders a little shake.

“What the hell happened?”

“How can you not know?” she wails. “It’s everywhere. All over the papers.”

When they’re looking for a case, Dean reads tabloids, but never the regular papers. 

“Why? Why would he do that?”

She buries her face in Dean’s neck. He tolerates it although he’d much rather be hearing answers. It’s strange what he has with Sally. He’s never cared for anybody other than Sam, but this girl’s suffering makes him uneasy. Makes him want to fix whatever’s wrong.

Before he can get to the bottom of what’s wrong, the ugly kid exits the building with a bunch of other nerds. Dean squeezes Sally’s shoulders and promises to talk to her soon. 

His boots click against the pavement which is damp from yesterday’s melted snow. Under the grey sky, everybody speaks in hushed tones, slumps their shoulders more than usual, as if collectively carrying some heavy burden.

The kid hops onto a bike and doesn’t respond when Dean calls after him the first time.

“Hey!”

The kid glances over his shoulders but keeps riding. 

“Stop, you little fucker.”

Dean runs, mucking up his boots and sloshing mud onto the hems of his jeans. He grabs the back of the bike and the kid topples to the ground. Not Dean’s fault. The kid should have stopped. 

He sits in a pile of brown slush, wincing up. Dean can’t bring himself to help the shitkicker to his feet. The boy’s ugly from a distance. Up close, the arrangement of his features is unforgivable. He looks like that Muppet eagle. If this is what Sam wants, Dean can’t compete.

The kid stands and Dean concentrates on not knocking his homely face in. Instead, he does when he came to do.

“You know Sam Winchester?”

The kid’s eyes grow big. He looks around to see if anyone is watching. Dean doesn’t give a fuck who else sees. The kid twists to check his ass which is, no doubt, sopping wet and cold. 

Rapidly losing patience, Dean repeats himself, “You know Sam?”

“He hasn’t been in school,” the boy mumbles.

“I know. I’m his brother.”

His face registers awe and relief and then, concern. “Is he OK?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does he know what happened?”

“You mean at the bar?”

The kid starts looking around again, suspicious as if he was the damn shooter. But the shooter is dead. John got that information at the morgue. There’s no reason for him to lie, so what is this kid hiding? Or what does he know? Or is he just scared?

Dean can be overbearing. He’s cultivated that impression intentionally. Before he became an asshole, he was a target. This is better. Still, he lowers his gaze, takes a step back and speaks softly when he asks, “I want you to come see my brother.”

The words taste like gravel mixed with shit.

“What?” 

Sam needs something Winchesters can’t provide. That’s why he’s so obsessed with school. Dean has never seen his brother such a wreck. If he knew what else to do, he’d do it. Maybe this kid can help. As much as it’s torture to admit it, maybe this kid can make Sam feel better.

“Did he ask to see me?”

“Tell me this,” Dean says because he’s a glutton for punishment. “What are you two?”

Even before the answer comes, he flinches. The kid looks even more afraid of the reply than Dean is. 

“What do you mean?”

Of course, he’s not going to admit it. Dean probably couldn’t even beat a confession out of him. Safer to stay hidden.

“He likes you?”

The kid shrugs and laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah. I mean, we’re friends.”

“Look, I know Sam is... into boys. Are you and him together?”

His face contorts, mouth falls open and flaps as he fails to assemble a proper response. Probably never spoken honestly about this. 

“I don’t know,” he finally says.

That’s enough of a yes to gut Dean. “Sure looked like he likes you.”

“You’re not going to—”

“I’m not telling anyone. I just need you to talk to him. Get him feeling better.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s ... got the flu.”

The kid frowns like Dean said the Plague. “Well, can’t it wait until he’s better?”

“No! No. He’s not contagious. Just … It’s not the flu, all right. It’s… He’s upset about ... what went down at the club.”

The kid’s face falls as does with his reluctance. He nods and follows without another word. Dean hoists his bike into the back of his truck.

***

It must be a hallucination. There is no way Preston is standing at the bedroom door. Nobody knows where Sam lives, except Sally. If she showed up right now, what would Sam say?

What could he say? He had done what came naturally. He’d followed his training and his instincts. He hadn’t meant to…

The first tear to trickle down his cheek leads an uncontrollable torrent. He doesn’t even try to wipe them away.

Dean stands at Preston side and asks, “This is your guy, right?”

What does he mean ‘Sam’s guy’? Dean was Sam’s guy. All he wants in the world is for Dean to come and hug him and kiss him and tell him everything‘s OK. That this isn’t real and he’s not the filthy murderer he feels like. 

But Dean walks away and Preston quietly enters the room. He sits on Dean’s bed with his hands clasped between his knees. He looks around, but there isn’t much to see: no posters, no calendars or decoration of any kind. They’ve been here for months, but it isn’t the Winchester way to dress up a place they’re only going to leave soon. 

Preston chews his lip. Apparently, he doesn’t know what to say. What does he know?  
He rubs his hands together slowly. He rolls his lips in and lets out a soft sigh. If he came closer, Sam wouldn’t complain about it. His warmth wouldn’t be Dean’s but it would be better than the infinite miles of jagged ice slicing up Sam’s insides.

“My parents told me not to expect anything from him,” Preston rasps and clears his throat. “To be happy with what it was. He’s got all this… pressure. Had. You know? His dad’s a preacher and a senator and… He didn’t even want to go to college. Mr. Fitzhugh would have killed him just for that. 

I never asked him for anything. Just took what I could get.”

Preston bows his head and lets out a few ragged breaths before he continues. 

“A couple of months ago, he wrote me this letter, asked me to go away with him after he graduated. How the hell was I supposed to do that, Sam? It was crazy. I can’t just leave my mom to take care of my dad by herself. Plus, I’ve got two more years of school. What were we supposed to do? It was crazy. 

So, then there was you… And he asked Sally to marry him, I guess to punish me. I don’t know… And I told him, fine. It was over. I never…”

Preston sobs into his palms, leaving Sam the relative silence in which to make sense of what he’s saying.

“He wasn’t a bad person, Sam. Just everybody wanted so much from him. I would’ve gone, but not now. I couldn’t leave now. Why would he… All those guys… God. How could he do that?”

Preston shakes his head and cries some more. And Sam cries, too, because this is all his fault.  
He’s the one who killed Brock.


	22. Chapter 22

But you can’t go on hating and pitying yourself forever.  
Well, you can.  
And Sam Winchester will spend the rest of his life third, fourth, and fifth guessing every move, every choice he makes. Not only that night, but always. 

He will hardly ever trust he’s done the right thing. This fifteen-year-old doesn’t know that yet, but he’s languishing in the foretaste of a lifetime spent silently apologizing to dead monsters, grieving for the families of the victims he couldn’t save. Mourning on behalf of lovers he doesn’t love enough.

But the name Winchester means resilience and Sam is done suffering in bed.  
(It’s actually an old English name meaning, One Who Holds the Fort). 

Due to his father’s version of the prime directive, Sam can’t write an apology letter to Brock’s family. Can’t go forward to the police and explain what happened. Can’t do much of anything except to accompany his brother to the bar for this vigil. 

There aren’t any speeches or anything. Just somebody playing the guitar and a dozen people huddled in the cold, holding candles with paper collars to catch the wax. Each time, the mean wind blows one out, a neighbor cups a hand around their flame and rekindles it.

They’re remembering seven of the eight lives that ended here. The “Innocents.” Brock got what was coming to him. On an intellectual level, Sam knows this. But where it counts, all he feels is guilt.

A semi-circle: framed pictures of Brock’s victims forms a makeshift shrine. No picture of Sam’s victim. In the center, Marco shines with a bright smile they’ll never see blossom again. He was a good man, Sam thinks. At least, Dean liked him, which is its own kind of miracle. As a matter of fact, Dean breaks from the crowd to place something among the flowers and cards: a small plastic container. 

Is that lube?  
No one notices, or no one comments. 

From the midst of the crowd, someone waves a mittened hand. Miss Jeffries carries a thick bundle under one arm. She hugs Sam with her free arm and then continues toward the man standing between the photos. He seems to be officiating, in a silent, disorganized way.

Together, Miss Jeffries and the man unfurl a massive rainbow flag, a thousand times bigger than the tiny one in the front window. They hold the fabric wide and the small crowd erupts in applause.  
All Sam can see is Brock‘s face: the forehead caved in, blood welling in the corners of both wide-open steel-blue eyes.

He hears that song his dad always plays:

No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man

The wind whips the flag from Miss Jeffries hands. Dean emerges from the crowd to help hold it. 

After a while, the crowd disperses. The man folds the flag. Dean shakes Mis Jeffries’ hand.  
He’s been quiet and distant. Not cruel. Not kind. 

Sam hasn’t asked Dean for what he wants. Tries not to speak. Can’t bear the sound of his own voice.  
All the crap with Dean’s prank doesn’t matter anymore. It shattered into dust that night.  
It doesn’t matter why Dean did it. The fact is Sam is in love with his brother. That’s probably never going to change.

Meanwhile, Dean is huddled close to Miss Jeffries. Talking. Not smiling, but nodding and listening. Clearly engaged in what the other is saying. It doesn’t look like flirting, but she’s pretty. Kind and artistic. Not Dean’s type, but it wouldn’t surprise Sam if they had a fling. His brother can be charming.

There’s a memorial repast inside the bar. Sam goes inside escape the cold wind and the glacial horror of watching Dean pick up women at a vigil.

***

“Dean Winchester.”

He offers his hand. The woman shakes and introduces herself. Carla Jeffries. They’ve met.

“You have Sam, right? In a class?”

“No. He…” she sighs. “Often comes to my room at lunch. I try to create a safe haven.”

Why the hell should Sam need a safe haven? There’s no student or faculty that can fuck with him. And if he had a serious problem, then he knows to come to Dean. But apparently, Dean wasn’t enough to keep him safe. This woman was. He has to respect that.

***

Dean doesn’t explain why they needed to leave the vigil separately. Sam doesn’t ask. He walked through the blistering gale to Preston’s house. Preston, who was conspicuously absent. Then again, no one was there to remember the shooter. 

It’s already dark at 5 PM, but it feels much later. Exhausted from the communal grieving, Sam’s bones ache for his bed. He regards the front door and the lights glowing behind the curtained windows and decides not to knock. Has nothing to say for himself. 

Just needs to get his crap. 

He climbs into the treehouse, swings his duffel onto his shoulder and starts when Preston whispers, “Hey.”

Thankfully, Sam’s gun is deep down in the bag. The way his heart is pounding, he’d still be squeezing the trigger. Preston is invisible as a shadow. 

“Why’d you leave that here?” he asks.

“Long story.”

“You can crash on the couch if you need to. My folks won’t mind,” Preston says. “But your brother seems okay. Is he not?”

“He’s okay.”

“Cares about you a lot, right?”

Sam’s shrug is probably invisible, too. “Look, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

An unanswerable question. “For everything.”

“It’s not your fault,” Preston says. 

He has no idea.

“I shouldn’t have let him touch me. I shouldn’t have—”

Sam drops his bag and wraps his arms around Preston. Forgetting to torture himself long enough to comfort his friend is healing magic. They hold on to one another a moment longer. Then, Sam grabs his things and goes home. 

***

Dean runs a hand through his hair before he rings Sally’s doorbell.


	23. Chapter 23

Dean’s not there when Sam returns. He hadn’t expected to find his brother. Doesn’t want to guess where he is. Their father is at the kitchen table, reading and drinking a beer.

“You know that place you sent Dean?” Sam says. “I want to go there.”

Sam doesn’t even know which state it was. All he knows is that Dean came back a better fighter. A harder man, at 16.

“I want to be better,” he says. “I need to be better. So nobody ever gets hurt around me again. I should have been faster. Should have…”

Tears are welling behind his eyes. Dean doesn’t cry. Not ever. He’s a hollow tool, programmed for destruction. Nothing else. Sam needs to get hollow. His duffel bag is already packed.

“Dad, I need you to send me. Someplace. Please.”

He can’t be here, and not have Dean, and face what he did. Maybe, if he goes to that place, turns into a raging asshole like Dean, then he can fend for himself and protect people and not be so fricking soft.

John takes a swig, but doesn’t speak.

***

Sam ghosts his way through the following days. Dean isn’t around the apartment much. When he is, the brothers fill the room with silence and sighs.

When Sally breaks down during class, the teacher always excuses her to leave the room. Sam avoids Miss Jeffries, opting instead to sit at lunch with a band of goths. They don’t bother him. He returns the favor. Eats. Can’t wait until the day ends. Can’t wait until everything ends.

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, he returns from school and his dad’s car is gone.  
Dean is watching TV on the sofa with the remote control in one hand and beer in the other hand: his classic pose.

“Is dad gone?”

Dean nods but doesn’t speak or look up.

But they’re alone. Sam’s heart soars as if his brother has already kissed him. Already put his hand on Sam’s thigh, telling him he misses his body, too. Sam drops his backpack and sits close enough for anything to happen, but nothing does.

Except Dean asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty shitty.”

His brother had already guessed that Sam was sufferings killer’s remorse after snuffing his first human. Sam confirmed the suspicion and left it at that. None of that matters while he’s sitting here trembling.

What is the best way to do this? He’s been waiting for the perfect moment. It has to be now.

More honestly, he’s has been waiting for Dean to do it, but Dean hardly looks at him anymore. Sam’s going to have to take this matter into his own hands. He holds his breath and pulls Dean’s palm onto his already half-hard cock.

It isn’t exactly a finessed come-on, but there’s no way to misinterpret. Sammy wants. So bad, it aches. The want weighs him to his solitary bed and makes it difficult to get up in the morning.

Dean takes back his hand and says, “I was six, the first time I killed something. Four, if you count a fish.”

Sam doesn’t want a hunter’s lecture, not even in this soft, conciliatory voice. He wants his brother groaning behind him. He wants them plastered together by sweat. Overheated and sticky.

“I need you.” Sam hangs his head, humiliated by the confession. “I didn’t want to do this, but I need to feel you, Dean. No matter what it means to you. I need you inside me.”

“Go to bed, Sam.”

“Please.”

Dean shakes his head. Eventually, Sam musters the energy to drag his bag to the bedroom. Lays down in his t-shirt and briefs.

It’s well after midnight when Dean crawls in behind him, closer than close, strong arms around Sam’s chest, warm breath on his nape. A kiss there and an erection at Sam’s behind. But that’s all.

It feels like dying.

***

“It sucks,” Sam whispers.

“I know, kid.”

“Why does it have to feel like this?”

Dean squeezes him closer but doesn’t try to answer.

He’s gotten a pretty clear portrait of this Brock guy from Sally. He doesn’t sound like the type to go off and kill a bunch of queers for no reason. But his dad was a fascist Christian politician. The kid must have thought it was a righteous mission, and if Sam hadn’t been there, he would have gotten away with it.

It’s tough. Dean had known the first human beings he ever killed, too. It isn’t the same as ganking monsters, even if those human beings were basically animals.

Even more vividly, Dean remembers being Sam’s age, watching his baby brother sleep. Breathing on his face. Tracing his lips until Sam opened his mouth. Sucking in his minty- sweet exhales. Close Sticking a finger inside and whispering, “Suck it, Sammy.”

Gradually, over time, growing more daring until he was jerking off and stuffing his jizz between Sam’s sleeping lips. He’d wake up with a weird look, wiping his tongue on the back of his hand, complaining about acid reflux.

Finally, a couple of days after Sam’s twelfth birthday, Dean had gone to his father with an incomplete confession. According to his version, he was still only fantasizing. Wanting things he shouldn’t. Even that. Much of the truth reduced him to sloppy tears.

“I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to want weird things with Sam.”

“Just Sam?” his father had asked with unsettling calm. “Not other guys?”

“Nobody but Sam.”

Dean waited to be throttled or killed. John only nodded and said, “It’s part of the curse. Has to be.”

“Curse?”

“This whole family is damned. You’re just going to have to live with it.”

I can’t, Dad. I need you to fix me. Please. I don’t want to hurt him.”

Even then, Dean knew he would. One of these times, their dad would go off on a solo hunt and by the time he returned, Dean would have convinced Sam to do something awful. It was just a matter of time.

It took a few months, but John found two viable options: one religious, the other military. There was no debate.

Dean was on a first-name basis with every guy who raped him. One of them, Trent, had pretended for two weeks to be his friend. He’d led Dean out to this ruined barn, he’d thought to lounge in the moldy hay, smoke weed, and talk shit.  
It was there that they began “fixing” him. The two adult counselors "fixed" him every day for two weeks. Tearing him to shreds, all while grunting and shouting in his ear what he was and why. Asking if he enjoyed the treatment. If he still wanted men.

Dean had never wanted men. He only wanted Sam.

The day he got back from camp, John asked if he was better.

“Right as rain,” Dean replied and declined to hug his little brother, because not a damn thing had changed.

Well, some things were irrevocably different.  
The second he saw Sam, reading in a corner, looking up and then lumbering over for a welcome-back-hug, Dean didn’t want to kiss and play kinky games with him anymore. He wanted to cuff that skinny little bitch to the bed and fuck every hole he could find. Maybe carve a few new ones, like Jack the Ripper.

The following summer, Dean took a few days leave from his father, hunted down Trent and Cade, slit their throats and watched them bleed out. He never felt vindication. Not remorse. Not lighter, or like it was over.

The only time he felt anything close to good was with Sam.


	24. Chapter 24

“Shit.”

Dean jolts awake with Sam’s limbs wrapped around his body like tentacles. Morning wood beneath briefs, nothing more happened between them than a bit of desperately writhing hips and a slight relief of pressure before Dean called it off. He kept his diseased dong to himself. Wouldn’t risk infecting Sam with three rubbers on.

Plus, someone’s always watching. And even if they weren’t, it’s time to grow up.  
And time to wake Sam.

“Come on, snoring beauty.”

Sammy groans and rolls over and it’s a shame to lose that warmth all at once.

“Move it,” Dean says, stands and yanks off the blanket

Sam curls up like a roly-poly. “What? There’s no school today.”

“Duh. You got ten minutes. Let’s roll.”

Sam is a bit more human after his shower, but no time for a fancy breakfast. Dean carries down his duffel and tosses it into the bed of the truck. Hopefully, he didn’t pack anything that will break or freeze.

Dean turns his music low and the heat high.

Sam tries, too soon, to warm his hands by the vents and winds up just rubbing them together.

“Where are we going?”

No reply. Dean keeps his eyes on the road. He doesn’t even turn when they drive past that playground. Things of the past.

Sam glances over his shoulder for a glimpse. Even if Dean were inclined to succumb to the temptation, there isn’t time. He pulls in under the golden arches and spends the last of Sally’s fuck money on a greasy feast. Sam eats his breakfast without complaint.

Dean’s appetite is non-existent even though his guts feel like their caving in. Maybe he’ll eat later. Maybe not until Sam gets back. His right hand curled around Sam’s neck calms the inner storm a bit, especially when Sammy leans into it and gazes over, eyes fluttering shut, breathing hard.

Dean ignores the rush of blood to his cock and massages his little brother’s scalp until Sam’s mouth falls open, his left hand spanning the distance between them, squeezing on Dean’s thigh.

“Please. Can we pull over?”

Dean flares, but still resists. “Can’t be late.”

He pulls away and keeps his hand on the wheel for the rest of the drive.

When they arrive, Sam stares like he’s never seen an airport. He even asks, “What is this?”

“You’ll see.”

Sam probably thinks Dean forgot about this, or that he wasn’t listening in the first place. Dean heard it, but hadn’t taken it seriously, at first. There was no way their dad was going to let Sam go off with some strangers on some non-hunt related trip.

It took some doing. Bobby had to find his dad a solo hunt that would last at least a week. As far as getting the cash from Sally, Dean has done far worse for far less. He walks with Sam until they find the teacher lady with her flock of students near the check-in kiosks. She waves and Dean nods an acknowledgement. She’d been the most help: getting the school to pay the difference, pushing Sam’s late registration.

“All right,” Dean says, stopping by the automatic doors.

This is where they’ll part ways.

***

The surreality of the moment hasn’t yet cleared. Sam looks between his brother and his troupe.  
Miss Jeffries, Milo, Cara, Kai, Holly and Preston stand in a small huddle.

Dean shoves his hands into his pocket and doesn’t explain how this is possible. Sam nearly knocks his brother over with a hug. He only tolerates the embrace for a few seconds before he shoves Sam away and says, “I’ll see you Monday.”

Monday? Five days? Nothing like this. Has ever happened. Sam’s legs don’t believe it either. They half turn to pudding as he walks over to the group from school.

***

Sam needs a break from his own darkness. Dean knows too well about that. It's okay to let go. Little brother is going someplace good. He’ll be home in five days.

Sam totters the first few steps, but then jogs over to his buddies. Dean never had any buddies. All he ever had was his sweet, good, smart, kind, little brother. Dean can’t let Sam harden. He’ll carry the burden, the Winchester curse, for them both.

Sam looks back one last time and waves. His smile is everything.


	25. Chapter 25

Dean swallows the first stupid horse pill dry, right there in front of the pharmacist. Then, he swipes a pint of milk and drinks half of it standing in the aisle. Dean stopped by and listened to the bar owner talk about turning the space into a night club. No ghosts. No traces of Marco, or Dale, or any of the guys.  
That’s probably best.

Bobby calls on Thanksgiving. They talk for two minutes. Dean doesn’t need to be coddled.  
He does, however, call Sam’s hotel room. No answer. He doesn’t leave a message.

***

They don’t win the competition, but it’s crazy fun anyway. And Sam eats the best Thanksgiving dinner of his life provided by one of Stanford’s campus cafeterias. Dean should be here. He’d eat enough of this food to burst.

Lot of firsts on this trip. For the first time, Sam stays up all night with a group of his friends playing a mash up of Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare. When his spin lands on a smooch with Milo, they both decline and accept the penalty. Sam confesses to biting his toenails. It is, without question, his most embarrassing habit. (Sleeping with your brother is not a habit. It’s just a really bad idea.)

When Preston is forced to admit if he has a crush he, very unsubtly, looks directly at Sam. Everyone goes nuts. Sam’s face burns as fire-red as it must be.

They share a room, but. Preston doesn’t try anything. It almost seems like he’s avoiding. Sam, until they all go down to see the Pacific Ocean. And Sam’s on a bench, wondering if Dean has ever seen it, when Preston sits down beside him. Slides his pink against Sam’s.

They look at their hands. At each other, then away. Sam buzzes. Preston smiles.  
That night, they stay up until they pass out, watching X-files, side by side in bed, but fully dressed and never venturing to do more than knock their feet against each other, cross their ankles, hold hands, and kiss.

***

Their plane arrives late and Miss Jeffries delivers Sam to the front door of the apartment. He thanks her and tiptoes inside to find Dean in bed. Just when Sam thinks he’s quietly slipping out of his clothes, Dean asks, “How was it?”

“Amazing.” Sam nods. “Thank you.”

***

Dean waits an hour before he slides into bed with Sam. He snuggles up behind him, melting into the warmth and his long, thin form. He kisses the back of Sam’s skull and snaps his hips against his ass. Wasn’t going to do this, but god.

“Dean, “ Sam whispers. “I shouldn’t do this anymore.”

“I know,” Dean says, squeezing him tighter.

This will be the last time. He’s been taking those damn meds, but he’ll wrap up just in case. All he needs is --

“Dean, I’m seeing someone.”

Sam tenses like he expects retaliation. And Dean could lash out, but he's frozen from the inside out. “The ugly kid?”

“Preston,” Sam says. “I like the way he looks.”

The way they’re laying, it would be so easy to pin him down and take it. Dean’s still stronger and heavier. Sam will wuss out and hardly even defend himself.  
Better yet, Dean could breathe in his ear, wrap around his brother like a serpent, and caress and plead him pliant. 

Dean sits up on the side of Sam’s bed.

There’s no way anybody likes the way that kid looks. Sam is just one of those people who can see past appearances. He’s a fucking saint who, miraculously, once saw something in Dean.

Maybe it's the same speck of good that allows Dean to saunter across the dark room, slide into his own bed and say, “I’m happy for you, Sammy. “

The crazy thing is, as much as it hurts, he means every word.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy this fic, please leave a comment and share with a friend.  
Also, consider checking out my writer page on Facebook: Ben L Moore  
Thanks!


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